Shades of Pale
by WednesdaysChylde
Summary: The Fates allow Strife's return after his untimely demise, but why and at what cost? Tinkering with the Xenaverse, so bear with the general atmosphere of AU and some peculiar character quirks. May evolve into slash in later chapters.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, I just torment them when bored. Mwah. That said, be gentle. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, though I've read enough to rot my brain.

Nothingness and more nothingness and Hades, was it boring. Somewhere in the aether, there broke a sigh. And the sound slowly faded back into the interminable nothingness. Bodiless, a pair of eyes blinked, blue flickering into being in the void. This was new- eyes. Another blink, another sigh. The owner of the eyes-sans-body was bored. Usually, that boded ill for anyone and everyone. Now, it was just a statement of fact... nearly a state of being.

Abruptly, the sound of rushing air filled the void- air rushing to fill the now empty space formerly occupied by those pale blue eyes. And then the void settled back into monotony once again.


	2. a rude awakening

Disclaimer: None of these lovelies belong to me, and so much the sadder am I. Be kind.

Ow.

Owowowowowow.

Somewhere along the line, boredom had been replaced by pain. The pain was swiftly followed by surprise, confusion, elation, bewilderment. And then–

"Am I naked?"

The voice creaked, rusty with disuse. It wasn't a bad voice, really. A masculine tenor, just the barest hints of hysteria thrusting the last uttered syllables into a more boyish octave.

The owner of the voice, the same owner of those blue eyes, blinked and sat up. Damp grass clung to pale flesh, the broken blades scattered through disarrayed locks a shade so black as to hint at blue in the weak light of dawn. Another blink of those eyes and clever hands rose to irritably swipe at the clinging grass... and paused, hovering in shock. Incredulous, the man peered at his own long-fingered hands. They were the hands of an artist, a thief- quick, elegant, scarred in odd places. Callouses had built on the pads of fingers, scars running silver lines across pallid skin. The man's gaze trailed up, following the lean muscle of forearms 'til he stared at the sharp curve of a shoulder. Down and down he peered, eyeing the flat planes of his abdomen, scars gleaming here and there- some the long silver scratches that spoke of a blade wound, odd star burst patterns that might have been the sight of an arrow penetration, and shiny patches that hinted at burns.

Dazed blue eyes continued a slow perusal of that body, newly returned. Pale and smooth as white marble, visibly veined in blue, marred only by those wounds that told eloquent tales of battles fought, enemies vanquished. All this took place in a matter of moments- silent moments finally broken by-

"I'm alive!"

And then Strife, former God of Mischief and second hand to Ares himself, fainted dead away.

Awareness returned slowly, long black lashes fluttering to reveal those ice blue eyes. They shot wide, joy and disbelief vying for dominance upon expressive features.

It was then, of course, that he realized he was no longer alone in the clearing. Startled, Strife curled onto his knees, trying to protect the exposed areas of his body (which was really a lost cause, as he was still quite naked).

An exasperated sigh sounded followed by a quick snap of fingers, loud as an explosion in the silent field. Strife found himself abruptly clothed, rough homespun trousers and tunic covering his frame. The color could only be described as... an unflattering shade of brown, and the fit left something to be desired, but at least he was covered. Vaguely relieved, he peered between the fingers that had been attempting to protect his head and face, eyeing the newcomer with trepidation.

"Zeus?"

Strife stared, looking all the world like a lost little boy in his ill-fitting clothes. The other figure shimmered, solidifying into a dignified older man- silver haired and bearded. His eyes were also blue, though deeper, hiding more within their depths. He strode forward, pausing to look down upon the confused younger man.

"Yes, Strife. I'm here, you're here... oh. And here is just outside Thebes, in case you were curious."

Strife gaped a moment, doing a very good impression of a very pale goldfish. Then he scrambled up, lurching slightly as he adjusted to the use of the new body- so much like his old body but made awkward by lack of...

"Zeus! I'm mortal! I mean.. I...ah...wha..?"

The King of the Gods chuckled, reaching to steady his bewildered grandson. That done, he would step back and fold his arms across his chest, unconsciously adjusting the folds of his toga.

"Eloquent, as usual my boy. Yes, you're mortal. No, I can't explain. Just know that it has been decided that you deserve a chance- a second chance, I should say. Use it wisely."

And with that he flashed out in all his usual pomp and splendor, leaving a staring ex-Godling in his wake.

"Of all tha...I can't believe... ridiculous... what in tha name ah Hades... can't for tha life of me.."

The grumbling faded in and out, rising with a wild gesture only to quiet with a despairing sob as the distraught Strife stumbled along. Bare feet maintained an uneven path just to the side of the well-worn ruts of the road into Thebes. Every time a rider or wagon approached, Strife would duck out of sight, throwing himself behind trees and into scrubby bushes with a speed and elegance of movement that was at odds with the rest of his appearance. Hiding out of sight, holding his breath, the former Godling contemplated his situation. He was confused, alone, tired, hungry... and he sure as Tartarus didn't want to face down any curious mortals (fellow mortals, he grudgingly reminded himself) just yet.

Soon he drew to a halt in his dispirited trudging, staring forlornly at a crossroads. He really didn't want to go to Thebes- too busy, too crowded. So he pivoted upon a dusty heel and set off down the opposite trail, humming a tuneless melody beneath his breath.


	3. in over his head

Insert standard disclaimer here. Not mine, never will be, and prepare for unmitigated Strife-bashing. But only 'cause I love him.

Back on Olympus, a small group of bickering Gods and Goddesses surrounded Zeus the moment he returned. Ares thrust them aside to face down his father, eyes dark with barely concealed rage.

"You just LEFT him? No weapons, no answers, nothing? And mortal!"

Zeus almost quailed in the face of his son's wrath, just barely managing to hold his ground. He attempted a placating gesture only to be blind-sided by a shrieking Eris.

"You brought him back to abandon him? Of all the..."

She trailed off, spitting curses and gesturing wildly with expressive hands, the gestures painfully reminiscent of those made by her son moments ago as he lamented his fate.

Drawing a deep breath, Zeus planted his sandaled feet wide and bellowed at his assembled family.

"SILENCE!"

The others drew back, staring. The interruption allowed Zeus to regain some composure, and he settled a superior gaze upon his wayward relations.

"Now, then. Yes, I brought him back. No, I did not abandon him. He will be fine. He just needs–"

He was interrupted, surprisingly, by Aphrodite. How he had missed her gauzily-clad form up 'til this point... well. It was a testament to his own upset.

"Listen, pops, you just left the poor kid without a clue. At least let–"

Zeus quieted her with a stern glance. She withdrew, huffing into a handkerchief embroidered with tiny roses and hearts. _The poor kid, all alone and lost and scared... sniff. _

"He will be fine. No one, and I mean no one, will interfere with him. Watch, fine.. But no meddling."

Here, Zeus shot a sidelong glance to the snuffling Aphrodite, who rolled wide, shocked eyes at him. Cupid, unnoticed 'til now, eased up to his mother's side and swept a broad, comforting hand across one of her shoulders. Solemn hazel eyes regarded the proceedings with some unidentifiable emotion- regret, anger, dismay? Just as quickly it was gone, and he ducked his head to murmur reassurance to his mother.

Ares clenched his teeth, muscles twitching in his chiseled jawline. He was not going to beg. It simply wasn't his style. Instead, he snarled and snatched at his twin, tugging the distraught Eris in close to his leather-clad body. The two disappeared in a bright flash, leaving behind a cascade of red and black sparkles. The remaining members of the House of War, most still grumbling or biting back curses, followed suit.

Aphrodite sniffed again, curling her slender frame against Cupid's broad and reassuring chest. With one last pleading look at Zeus, Cupid blinked himself and the Goddess of Love out of the temple, their usual display of rose petals somewhat lackluster.

Hera gave one last hard look at her husband, violet eyes narrow and calculating. She was certain something was going on here- far be it for Zeus to bring a God back from the dead of his own volition. Someone was meddling, and she was going to figure it out. Hera hated not being in control of a situation as tenuous as this. She flashed out as well, a single peacock feather drifting to rest upon the smooth marble of the temple's floor.

Alone now, Zeus heaved a sigh and folded himself into a seat. Attention turned to a mirror affixed to the far wall. The image of a weary God faded, replaced with flickering scenes of the mortal realm below until Strife came into view.

The boy would be fine. He had to be.

Meanwhile, Strife had paused to rest. Walking was tiresome. He thought longingly of the long taken-for-granted ability to just flash to whatever destination he pleased. Musing about lost powers, he abruptly wondered how long he had been...well... dead. Days? Months? Years? Death was tricky, especially in the void. Time had no meaning there. Of course, he had never really paid attention to time when he was a God, either. A century here, a decade there... no matter, really.

He was brought out of his reverie by a sharp pain, stiffening muscles making themselves known as he moved to claim a seat beneath a tree. What he wouldn't give for the ability to wish up a chair. Hades, even pillows. Suddenly weary beyond words, he dropped his tousled head upon folded forearms and fought the urge to cry out all of his pain and confusion.

After a long moment, Strife braced himself mentally and physically and pushed himself upright. Rolling the muscles in his shoulders, he grimaced at the clothing Zeus had provided. It was hardly meant for long-term wear, especially in the outdoors. Noting that discomfort, it was easy to catalogue others. Drawing a breath, Strife began to move once again, now in search of food and water. If he was stuck like this, he might as well do his best.

Ares glared at the flickering image, a growl beginning low in his throat. Strife was his, and no one abused the favored of the War God. Granted, Ares had slapped the kid around some...maybe overworked him every now and then. But there was genuine affection there. After all, he had practically raised Strife. He certainly taught him everything he knew, groomed him in the ways of the House of War.

And now? Calisto had taken his protege from him those many years ago and Ares had been powerless to stop it. The Fates had seemingly allowed his return (for it must be those meddling biddies, Zeus didn't have the motivation or interest on his own), and Ares was still unable to help his nephew. He growled again, dark features drawn and troubled. There had to be something...

Mind churning, he glanced down upon his brooding twin. Eris' slim frame sprawled on a scattering of cushions just below his own throne-like chair. Her eyes were narrowed, dark slits in a face pale with anxiety. Suddenly she flinched, and Ares returned his attention to the scrying mirror. A snarl sprang unbidden to his lips, fingers clenching into fists at what he saw there.

Strife had located a source of water, a stream beckoning to him with a surprisingly insistent roaring. Rains had swollen the little stream until it ran deep and turbulent, its banks pushed beyond regular boundaries until a fairly wide area was made marshy. Eyeing the whole scene dubiously, Strife edged around the swamp-like bank to clamber upon a fair-sized boulder.

Stretching his lanky frame out upon the cool rock he leaned out, cupping a hand in the cool water. Carefully, oh so carefully, he drank and was shocked to find just how refreshing water could be. He never would've guessed something so simple could be so pleasing.

Relaxing, he allowed his head to droop, angular chin resting just so he could peer into the rushing stream. Fingers dangled, and an almost contented sigh slipped from his lips. At rest for the moment, he watched the blurry outlines of fish dart back and forth beneath the small waves. Hadn't he once watched mortals catch those things? He was getting hungry, after all..

The sounds of someone or something crashing through the brush behind him brought him abruptly upright, and his hands scrabbled for purchase on the slippery rock he was currently using as a perch. Eyes shot wide and Strife let out a muffled shout before he tumbled off the boulder and into the rushing water, disappearing from view at once.

He surfaced, flailing ineffectually, the beginnings of a terrified scream fighting its way from gaping lips. He just had time to glimpse two very surprised faces on the banks of the stream before he lost the battle to stay afloat.

Poor Strife had never learned to swim.


	4. curiouser and curiouser

Have I mentioned that they're not mine, yet? All of this is just a product of my fevered imagination and some mild sleep deprivation.

Back on Olympus, Ares' temple shook with the force of his rage at being unable to help his nephew. Eris had scrambled to her feet as her son slipped into the turbulent waters, staring in abject horror at the images of his struggles. To regain her son only to lose him again? A scream clawed its way from her throat, dark eyes tracking rapidly from the mirror to her brother. The plea there tore at Ares' heart and he found himself in an unusual position. He found himself impotent, angry, and absolutely terrified- not for himself, not even for Strife... but for his sister's sanity. Should she lose her boy again, Ares feared she would never recover- and a broken Goddess of Discord? One shudders to think.

Awkwardly, he gathered his sister close, tucking her slim, leather-clad frame against his broad chest. Calloused hands patted gingerly at her back, a somewhat flustered God of War trying his best to comfort. Feeling somewhat out of his depth (which happened in most situations not involving a battle or a discussion on weaponry), he eyed the images in the mirror again and caught his breath.

"Eris, Eris! They're going to save him, look!"

Cautiously he manuevered the distraught Goddess around 'til she faced the mirror once again, and then both of them groaned in dismay.

"Not those two..."

Hercules and Iolaus had been on their way to a festival in Thebes. The tall demi-god had been muttering something about unnecessary festivals being thrown on behalf of some of his less-deserving relations. His companion, weary of that particular rant, darted up and clapped the bigger man on a well-muscled shoulder.

"Aw, come on Herc. Let's take a break, huh? There's a stream 'round here I know about. We can rest, fish... you can cook 'em, of course."

The blond hunter grinned, flashing his best puppy-dog look at his amused friend. The other man laughed, gesturing an overly energetic Iolaus off the path they were walking. The hunter darted through the underbrush, disappearing quickly. Hercules followed at a more sedate pace, chuckling at his friend's exuberance. Iolaus never was much for patience or for waiting around while a lecture about irresponsible Gods was being given.

Picking up his pace, Hercules swept through the tangled underbrush in attempts to catch his friend before the crafty hunter managed to get too far ahead. It would be just like him to already have set up a small camp, just so he could rib Hercules about being lazy. He burst from the treeline just behind the smaller man... just in time to see a slender youth tumble into the stream before them.

For a long moment, the two companions simply stared, watching a dark head bob up and down in the water. Iolaus broke from his shock first, kicking off his boots and diving in without a word. He struggled against the current and then relaxed, allowing it to carry his compact frame along toward the flailing youth. Watching the younger man's struggles slow, Iolaus bit back a curse and kicked, stroking smoothly forward. He caught at the stranger's clothes, trying to work an arm around his midsection. The hunter finally managed to hold onto the younger man, cursing again as he noticed the youth had gone limp.

"Herc! Help get him up!"

Stroking back toward the bank, Iolaus scrambled to maintain his grasp on the stranger and clutch at the bank, doing his best to hold them both steady 'til Hercules could draw them from the water. The demi-god rushed to help, tugging both waterlogged men from the stream with ease. Iolaus flopped back, breathing heavily, a sidelong glance cast to his friend.

"How...(puff, pant)...is...(huff)..he?"

Hercules stretched the slim frame out, casting a critical eye across the unconscious stranger. Too thin, far too pale, the hint of blue at his lips, and wasn't something about him familiar? The demi-god scowled and rolled the youth on his side, pounding gently on his back.

"Herc?"

Iolaus questioned again, trying to work himself upright to oversee the boy he had rescued. Not quite a boy, he corrected himself. Young man... at best in his mid-twenties. But he was so thin, and so pale. Perhaps a runaway slave? Sharing his friend's scowl, he eyed the stranger with a combination of pity and interest.

Strife awoke to a burning sensation in his lungs. Sputtering, he coughed up what felt like half the stream. With a gasp, he rolled onto his back and found himself staring into a weathered face... no, two weathered faces, suntanned from days spent walking. Startled, Strife attempted to scramble back only to fall back, clutching at his ribs. Breathing hurt!

"Easy, friend. We are no threat to you."

The voice was soothing, much as one would use on a recalcitrant horse. Weary, Strife sank back and allowed himself to be placated. Trying to focus his eyes, he peered across his newfound companions. Recognition slowly filtered through his tired mind, and he tensed slightly. If these two knew who he was... but they must not, or they would probably have allowed him to drown. Entertaining those dark thoughts, Strife allowed his eyes to sink closed. He was safe, at least for now. These two would watch over him, at least as long as he needed to rest... as long as they didn't find out who he was, who he had been, or who he had worked for.

Exhausted, Strife fell into an uneasy sleep.

Back on Olympus, Cupid could've wept in gratitude. He had been pacing his temple, wings fluttering in agitation. Watching his cousin's near drowning had been... painful, horrible, terrible, heart-wrenching. Hazel eyes narrowed as Cupid examined that emotion. He always enjoyed his cousin's company, true... the Mischief God had always been a source of entertainment, and every now and then the two had worked together. So when had he gotten so emotionally attached? Cupid sat back on his own backless throne, grateful that the temple was empty at this hour. He was confused and overwrought, and against his will, he was drawn to watch the scene still playing out in his own scrying mirror.

"Watch him, Uncle Herc... he needs a friend."

So it was that a very confused Love God set about doing something almost as unthinkable as the War God comforting a distraught mother- he decided to analyze his own feelings.

Meanwhile, Hercules and Iolaus had moved their slumbering guest back from the water's edge. The two constructed a hasty campsite, the hunter building up a small fire while Hercules did his best to catch a few fish after refilling their water skeins. Iolaus spared a glance for his friend, watching the large frame silhouetted against the setting sun. Smiling to himself, he returned attentions to their new charge.

Iolaus scooted over to the boy's side, checking on him again. He nearly yelped in surprise as blue eyes slitted open, a groan escaping the awakening youth.

"W-watah?"

Iolaus scrambled to comply, mentally making note of the strange accent. Easing an arm behind the younger man's shoulders, he helped him sit up and drink carefully from one of the skeins recently filled by Hercules. Settling the stranger back down, the hunter sat back and looked him over critically.

He was young, that much was certain. His frame was lanky, lean muscle overlaying a thin body. Pale skin contrasted with a tousled shock of black curls, pale blue eyes that were currently as large as plates and watching him as if...

"Friend, you don't have to be frightened of us. I'm Iolaus, and that's Hercules."

Iolaus gestured off towards the approaching form of his friend, glancing back to find the youth watching him warily. The run-away slave hypothesis was becoming more and more appealing. Sighing, Iolaus shuffled toward to rub a comforting hand across the youth's shoulders, both of which were shaking imperceptibly.

"And what might we be calling you?"

The question seemed to startle the young man, and he took to examining his borrowed bed roll. Thin shoulders hitched in a shrug, and both Iolaus and Hercules were left staring at the top of his head.

"Do you have a name?"

Taking the slave hypothesis and running with it, Iolaus made a quick gesture to his friend and moved to regain the stranger's attention. He caught what might have been a look of gratitude as the youth shook his head, dark curls obscuring those wide eyes for a moment.

"Fair enough. Well, Herc... what shall we call him, hm? He looks like a... Stamitos to me. Maybe a Galen?"

Hercules snorted, nudging his smaller friend in the back.

"He isn't a pet, Iolaus. Though I like Galen."

The shaggy blond spared a look that was almost wounded at his chuckling friend. He took a breath to argue with the demi-god only to be interrupted by a soft voice at his elbow.

"Galen is... nice. Thank yah."

The startled companions glanced to the newly-christianed Galen, both grinning widely. Galen tentatively returned the smiles, somehow looking as if he didn't use those particular facial muscles very often. This sobered the older two men somewhat, and they drew away- ostensibly to clean the fish Hercules was still clutching in one hand.

Strife-cum-Galen watched the two bandy words back and forth, vaguely interested despite himself. He had been surprised at the pains they had taken thus far on his behalf, and even more astounded that they didn't pry for answers. Seemingly, they were content to let him rest in silence.

Strife really didn't know what to think of the situation. Ares had never favored his half-brother, and most of the War God's underlings (which was pretty much the entire House of War) maintained a similar attitude. Strife had even tormented the demi-god and his little friend on more than one occasion, though he had never paused to consider precisely _why_. Feeling confused for the umpteenth time that day, the former godling sprawled back out into his borrowed bed roll and stared morosely at the stars.

He was startled scant moments later by a hand gently tapping at his shoulder. Belatedly realizing Iolaus had been trying to get his attention with that new name (which was going to take some serious getting used to), Strife offered an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, I..ah.. Did yah want somethin'?"

Iolaus looked vaguely amused, shaking his shaggy blond hair in negation.

"No, kiddo... I was asking if you were hungry. Herc's got dinner fixed... and it may even be edible." He winked, blue eyes flashing in the firelight.

Hercules snorted, miming an irritated swat at his grinning friend.

"Don't listen to him, of course it's edible. Now, if Iolaus had cooked... well. Might as well resign yourself to a stomach ache."

Now it was Iolaus' turn to feign offense. He gasped, hands clapped abruptly to his heart.

"Oh, you wound me... never again will I cook another thing for you, ungrateful wretch."

The two continued on in that vein, leaving Strife to watch in amazement. They were like a show- perhaps they could sell tickets? Lips quirking, Strife finally gave into the urge to laugh. His laughter, quite unlike the maniacal giggling he indulged in once upon a time, was raspy at first, gradually deepening until he hadn't the breath to continue.

Hercules and Iolaus traded triumphant grins.

Ares was caught between the overwhelming desire to throw something, anything, at the mirror and a sudden rush of gratitude toward his annoying half-brother. Seems the little do-gooder did have some use after all.

A sudden burst of light and a shower of rose petals distracted him from his musings and he glanced up only to realize he was still wrapped around a trembling Eris. Faster than a scalded cat he jumped back, whipping around to glare at the newly-arrived Goddess of Love.

"Aphrodite. Something you needed?"

It wasn't on par with his usual sneer, dark features too weary to manage much in the way of intimidation.

"Oh, stuff it, bro. Just came to see how you were holding up."

Flapping her hands in dismissal of his snort of disbelief, 'Dite edged around to gingerly pat the Goddess of Discord on the back. Eris, still watching the mirror, waited until her son settled down for the night before turning a surprisingly neutral expression on the other Goddess.

"Holding up. Holding up? My dead son has been brought back to life and no one will tell me why and I can't go see him and he just came very close to drowning and now I have to watch him be all cute with _those _two? And you want to know how I'm HOLDING UP?"

The words tumbled over one another, rising in volume and pitch until the temple walls shook. Aphrodite and Ares took a step back, though the latter soon gritted his teeth and regained that lost step. Running out of steam, Eris shrieked wordlessly and vanished in a flurry of purple sparks. Aphrodite turned innocently wide blue eyes upon her brother.

"Was it something I said?"


	5. the downhill slide

Another installment with my borrowed boys. As usual, I don't own them, I just like to pull the strings every now and again. Things are about to get bumpy, and it's quite possible I'mma start making with the slash. Be nice or be gone, chil'rens.

Hercules and Iolaus watched as their new companion finally fell into a restless sleep, curled in borrowed blankets and twitching every now. As one they rose and disappeared into the tree line, far enough away to be able to talk without waking the boy.

"What do we do with him, Herc? Someone might be looking for him."

Hercules pinned the shorter man with a sharp glance, his expression difficult to read in the darkness.

"I don't know, Iolaus. Something about him is... very familiar."

A snort then from the hunter.

"Herc, you've saved half of Greece by now... familiar isn't saying much."

The demi-god shrugged, glancing off to the flickering glow of their campfire.

"No, this is... something else. I can't place it."

"You're not suggesting we leave him, are you? He's just a kid... a scared kid, at that."

The hunter seemed indignant now, compact frame bouncing on the balls of his heels. He couldn't believe Hercules would just leave the boy because of some _feeling_. He fought the urge to glare.

A sigh then from the larger man, hands thrown up in defeat.

"No, no... we're not going to leave him. We'll take him with us to Thebes- no, don't look at me like that. We're going that way and he'll just have to come with us."

Iolaus bit his tongue, reigning in his desire to argue with his friend. He would rather walk their newfound charge back to someone they could trust, someone who could watch the youth. Of course, he realized that once Hercules made a decision, it simply stood. He conceded the argument with his own sigh, following the bigger man's gaze back to the campfire and the lump nestled there.

Maybe Galen would enjoy the festival. It was a small hope, but the hunter took solace in it as he made his way back and clambered into his own bedroll for the night.

Hera had been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to wring answers from the Fates. She stood in all of her imperious glory, hands on hips, and glared at the unrepentant trio.

"You _will_ tell me why he has returned."

Stated in haughty tones, she eyed the youngest of the Fates. The maiden, however, merely smiled her enigmatic smile and glanced sidelong to her counterparts.

"The time is not right for you to know," spoke the maiden.

"Far too early," agreed the crone with that same smile.

Hera snorted her exasperation, narrowed eyes focusing on the silent member of the trio.

"Well? No cryptic remarks from you?"

She was met with an expression best described as carefully blank, though the Queen of the Gods could read amusement and something vaguely akin to condescension flickering behind the mask.

"You would have a prophecy, then? A rhyme? It will not lessen your irritation."

Hera all but stomped her foot at that, checking herself with an effort.

"I'm not irritated. I just want to know _why_. Why now? Why him?"

Of all the dead they could have returned, they chose Strife? Skinny, witless, impossibly useless Strife? Why her favorite son was so attached to the little mischief-maker she never could understand. Lips pressed into a tight line, she eyed the Fates once again. They calmly kept about their business, measuring, weaving, cutting...

With a short hiss of that irritation she claimed not to be feeling, Hera flashed out.

The Fates exchanged glances with one another, all wearing the same smile.

Strife woke before dawn, panicking for the briefest of moments at the unfamiliar surroundings. Certainly not his bedroom on Olympus, he reflected with a bitter pang of longing. Carefully nudging that thought and its accompanying emotions aside, he stood and stretched. Muscles protested the movement and he fought back a hitch in his lungs that attempted to urge him into a coughing fit. He wasn't quite ready for company yet, and he cast a wary eye across his sleeping companions.

We-ell... leave quickly, or travel with them? Strife puzzled quietly over his little dilemma, pacing away from the remains of the campfire on bare feet. Logically, he knew he should stay with them- after all, he had no money, no supplies, no means of protecting himself. He swallowed a groan, thinking that his uncle would be disappointed in him for relying on the despised Hercules. This whole situation was ridiculous and wearing on his last nerves. Lips compressed into a bloodless line, he eased himself back down upon his bedroll. Might as well take advantage of the more knowledgeable company for now, right? It was a good plan- nevermind that it was his only plan.

Drawing his legs up to his chest, he settled a spade-sharp chin on the rise of knees and watched Iolaus rouse from slumber. Of course the hunter would be the first to wake. Suddenly self-conscious, Strife looked away and studiously watched the first edges of the sun peek over the treeline. It brought to mind Apollo, and though Strife had never particularly had much contact with the Sun God, his throat closed up and he found himself blinking back unexpected tears. Gods but he was homesick. Did anyone even miss him?

Off to the side, he heard the blond hunter scuffling around in his blankets. The other man cleared his throat, sitting up to peer at him in some surprise.

"Awake already? Good, you can help me round up some breakfast," Iolaus announced in a cheerful voice. Tartarus. He would be a morning person, wouldn't he?

Strife managed a wan smile, offering a silent nod in response as he uncurled himself. Rising once again, he watched the older man with a certain amount of uncertainty.

"Know how to fish?"

Blue eyes met blue eyes, one pair hesitant and the other twinkling with a fair amount of patience and understanding. Strife relaxed and allowed himself to be led away from the campsite, Iolaus chattering companionably on the finer points of fishing. Behind them, Hercules slept on.

After her lukewarm reception at the Temple of War, Aphrodite decided not to flash over to Discord's temple to check on her again. Sniff. Ungrateful, Eris was. Or hysterical. Either way, Aphrodite was in no mood to deal with her tempermental sister. Instead, she popped into Cupid's temple, so flustered she completely forgot the usual flare that heralded her arrivals and departures.

"Cupie, doll?"

Her warm contralto bounced off the temple's walls, the cool white marble doing nothing to dampen the sounds. Unlike Ares' temple, which was decidedly dark and intimidating (what with the throne-like chair decorated in human bones and the overabundance of weaponry on the walls), the Love God's temple hinted at airiness and light, braziers of incense providing a comforting warmth and scent to the wide space.

Aphrodite peeked around, finally spotting her son. He sat brooding, hands automatically preening the shafts of his arrows, stocking his quiver for the day. His mother frowned, her gaze going distant for a moment- and then snapping back to focus in surprise. Cupid felt... felt... well. Smothering the urge to clap her hands and giggle, Aphrodite smoothed her expression and blinked to her son's side.

"Cupid? Sweetie?"

She settled a manicured hand on one tanned shoulder, blinking slightly as muscle tensed and Cupid jerked back in shock.

"Wha... mom?"

Classically handsome features rearranged themselves into something approximating irritation, though Aphrodite could see a myriad of other emotions lurking in her son's dark eyes. She offered him a sympathetic smile, stepping between him and the mirror that had formerly occupied his attention. Poor dear, had it bad and didn't even know it. 'Dite wasn't sure whether to be exasperated with her son's inexperience with his own emotions (let's not even discuss that Psyche debacle) or her lack of foresight. How could she not have seen this coming? It was so obvious. Duh.

"Cupie, you look tired. You know, worrying'll just give you wrinkles," she cooed in her sweetest voice.

"M'not worried. I was just... curious. Yanno, mortals," he muttered with a dismissive gesture, forcing himself to release the death-grip he had on his crossbow.

"Whatever, kiddo. I just wanted to make sure you're feeling well. I just came from visiting Ares and Eris, you know," 'Dite murmured in a conspiratorial voice, leaning close to her tow-headed son.

"I'm sure they were like, thrilled," he muttered, baritone thick with sarcasm.

"Cupie, be serious! Poor Eris, losing her only son and now this? Tsk. It's such a tragedy. I dunno what I would do if I lost you," and 'Dite was in full swing now, all melodrama and heaving sighs, wringing her hands in imagined distress.

Cupid rolled his eyes, setting crossbow and quiver aside to gather his mother into his arms. He rubbed reassuring patterns across her back, the feeling of gauze beneath his hands comforting him as well. Over his shoulder, Aphrodite smirked to herself. She was truly incredible at distraction- one of her more subtle skills, to be sure.

Sniffling, she untangled herself and eased back, brushing a kiss across her son's brow in passing.

"My little angel, so sweet. You'll make someone very happy someday, I just know it."

Cupid's brow furrowed and Aphrodite clucked her tongue, smoothing the wrinkles with a practiced thumb. Her other hand darted to nudge her son in the side, sneaking between the straps of his harness with ease.

"No more brooding. Wrinkles, remember? Now, off with you. Spread a little love, stir up a little lust," stated in motherly tones, just a hint of authority overlaid in concern. She stepped back and then made a little moue, fingertips ticking against her lower lip.

"Oh, and while you're out and about, dollface, you think you can stop by and invite Sweetcheeks and big bro to that festival coming up in Corinth? I'd hate for them to miss it."

This was added as if in afterthought, tossed out with her usual flippancy. There was nothing ditzy about the look in her eyes, though. Aphrodite could be shrewd on the rare occasions it suited her to be so. She watched her son's eyes widen, a grin tugging at his lips before he managed a business-like nod.

"Sure thing, mom. Gotta fly."

And the Love God practically bounded forward to give a bemused Aphrodite a quick hug before he flashed away from Olympus, his characteristic shower of golden sparkles lingering behind to be joined with 'Dite's display of rose petals as she too disappeared.

It had been hours since breakfast, hours spent walking and walking and walking. Strife was currently lagging behind the two heroes, wrapping himself in his silent misery. Cataloguing his many discomforts, starting with the disturbing sensation of sunburn and ending with weary feet, he failed to notice the rustling in the bushes or the significant looks traded between his more experienced traveling companions. In fact, it wasn't until he practically ran over Iolaus that he noticed the two had slowed, muttering to one another in low, tense voices.

"Um... guys. What's goin' on?"

He sounded nervous. He hated sounding nervous. He was a member of the House of War, for Zeus' sake. He shouldn't be nervous at the first sign of trouble. Gritting his teeth, he glanced from Hercules to Iolaus.

The demi-god peered down at him, taking a breath to say something– and then all Tartarus broke loose. An arrow whizzed past Strife's ear, or so it seemed to him, and he found himself being thrust toward the ground by a grinning Iolaus.

"Stay down! Herc and I'll take care of this," he stated with confidence and a maniacal sort of amusement, and before Strife could reply, the hunter threw himself into the melee.

Practically spitting at the indignity of being thrown down (former God here, witness and participant in many battles and right-hand of War!), Strife jumped back up at took the scene in with a practiced eye. Thieves? Most likely, as the rag-tag bunch had no leader by the looks of things. They attacked en masse, the larger men charging at Hercules as Iolaus snarked at the archers still hiding in the trees, bouncing to clobber some of the men Hercules had managed to keep at bay thus far.

"Iolaus!" Strife found himself sprinting into the midst of the small battle as a man attempted to sneak up behind the small hunter. The bandit was of average height but possessing a stocky build, a wicked dagger held in one hand. Strife tackled the man from behind as Iolaus turned, sparing a shocked look before another thief demanded his attention.

The former godling felt his heart sink at the way his opponent handled that knife– obviously, he was competent with the weapon, which meant it would be more of a challenge to take it from him. Strife's musings were cut short as the man bucked him off, scrambling to face him with a snarl. Eyeing the bandit warily, Strife edged back and into a looser stance... only to be clipped soundly in the shoulder by another bandit's staff. He howled in surprise and hurt, adjusting his position to eye the new threat while keeping attention on the man with the knife. Both smiled nastily at him, leering at the slender youth. Favoring his shoulder, Strife threw himself toward the lesser threat, rolling to kick the legs out from under the man wielding the staff.

The thief flailed, his staff connecting with Strife's head as he attempted to right himself. Blinking back stars, Strife curled nimble hands around the staff and tugged it from the other man's lax grasp. Dazed, he allowed his body to take over, muscles flowing into patterns well-learned over many years. The disarmed bandit was taken down with ease, sprawling into the dirt to join a number of his companions that had been knocked senseless by Hercules. Distantly, Strife could hear Iolaus taunting an archer, though his attention was focused on the knife-wielder. Capable hands twirled the staff, swinging it in a low arch at the man's knees. Seemingly startled, the man jumped back... and found himself dangling from Hercules' grasp. Hissing a curse, the bandit opted for throwing his dagger at Strife. In a movement that was pure reflex, Strife knocked the projectile away with his borrowed staff. He had time to notice that Hercules was staring at him with a very peculiar expression before the gray spots threatening at the edge of his vision closed in, dropping him into darkness.

Iolaus practically bounced out of the treeline, humming a piece of a bawdy tavern song under his breath. A good fight always got his blood rushing, his heart pumping, his–

"Galen!"

The youth was sprawled in the dusty road, a bruise darkening along his left temple, blood matting his disarrayed curls. Hercules was kneeling at his side, and the small cadre of bandits had vanished the moment they regained consciousness. Iolaus hurried up, dropping next to his friend.

"What happened?" He demanded, brushing tentative fingers across the wound. Wincing, he moved to check the unfortunate youth for other injuries.

"I don't know. One minute, he's doing some impressive work with that staff... the next minute, he's down," murmured the demi-god in some confusion, moving to gather the weapon in question. At least the kid would be armed, now. Hercules settled on his heels, the staff across his lap, and watched his friend work.

Iolaus gingerly probed at Galen's shoulder, eliciting a moan from the younger man. Lashes fluttered, pale blue eyes unfocused and bewildered in the sunburnt face.

"Did we win?"

The question was so childlike, both heroes had to fight back a laugh. Snaking an arm behind the youth's shoulders, Iolaus helped him to sit up, steadying him as he swayed.

"We always win," came the grandiose statement from Iolaus even as Hercules snorted. Both men watched their young companion regain some awareness of himself, sharing a sympathetic look as he hissed in pain.

"Guess mah head's not as hard as Unc always said," murmured the injured youth as he fingered the lump beneath the tangled mop of black curls, steadfastly ignoring the sticky blood clinging to hair and now fingers. Abandoning that pain, he rolled his shoulder forward only to whimper quietly, going a ghastly shade of white beneath his sunburn.

"Careful, now. Can you stand?"

The blond hunter helped his new friend struggle upright, staggering slightly as the youth swayed to one side. Hercules seemed lost in thought, staring at nothing in particular as his mouth reshaped Galen's words. Something was so familiar about...

"Herc!"

An impatient Iolaus snapped the demi-god from his reverie, and he hopped up. Passing the staff to Galen, he watched the younger man steady himself, tucking his injured arm close in effort not to jostle it.

"Guess we should find a healer when we get to Thebes, huh?"

Hercules nodded his agreement, struggling to regain the snatches of a memory. Iolaus merely made an exasperated sound and returned to aiding the wounded youth, chattering quietly in efforts to keep the boy's attention off his aches and pains.

Cupid materialized a quill, checking the last pair of names from his daily scroll. Both the scroll and the quill vanished as he took a deep breath, sighing out frustration and anxiety. Gods but his job was a drag sometimes. Ruffling his wings, his gaze went distant as he searched out the location of his uncle and cousin. Taking another deep breath, willing himself to be calm, he flashed to a crossroad just outside Thebes.

Invisible, he leaned a tanned shoulder against the flimsy post and waited for the trio to enter his sight. He could do this, play the game of posturing and nonchalance. He wasn't here to check up on Strife, no... he just wanted to insure his favorite uncle and loyal companion attended mom's next big bash. Shouldering his crossbow, he waited for the three to come 'round the next bend before shimmering into sight.

Hercules came first, long strides easily outstripping those of his companions. Iolaus entered his view as well, walking backward, arms waving as he related some tale with his typical enthusiasm. Cupid frowned, watching his cousin stagger in the hunter's wake. There was something wrong with Strife, that much was clear. He was leaning heavily on a crude staff, elegant fingers wrapped so tightly around the weapon that his knuckles were white. A bruise mottled expressive features, which were drawn tight with pain and weariness. Cupid's heart lurched and he found himself not only visible, but striding anxiously toward the smaller god's side. Former god, he reminded himself with an angry snarl- looking all the world like his father's son in that instant.

"Cupid?" Hercules deep voice was surprised and just a little wary as he took in his nephew's expression and bearing. But the young God of Love paid him no mind, his attention focused entirely on–

"Hades, Strife... what happened to you? Are you all right?"

The beleaguered former God of Mischief blanched, becoming even more pale (if such a thing were possible). Hercules and Iolaus rounded on the younger man, identical looks of shock and betrayal written upon their weathered faces. Cupid, for his part, groaned and clapped a hand across his big mouth.

"Oop. Guess they didn't know, huh? I..uh.. Mom's gonna kill me," he muttered between his fingers, watching the trio with anguished eyes.


	6. mistakes and misunderstandings

_Don't mind me, I'm just havin' a bit of fun with them. Don't own them, never will. If I did, Lord knows I wouldn't have quite so many loans to get me through school. Definite hints of slash from here on out, so be mindful... and gentle. Mwah._

"Hey, Feathahs... no stress. S'okay," soothed Strife in his soft, lisping tenor. After getting over the initial shock of being outed to his companions, he took in his cousin's distress and moved quickly- if somewhat painfully- to his side.

There the God of Love stood in all of his tanned, muscular glory, and he looked like his puppy had just been run over by a wagon. Strife's heart just went out to him, and the emotion was... surprising, to say the least. He had always gotten along with Cupid, of course. And there was that tiny crush he had nursed way back when, but who didn't have a crush on the featherhead? The Mischief God never paused to investigate his attraction, though, and why should he? Physically, he was nearly Cupid's opposite- dark where his cousin was light, pale as milk instead of tan, lithe and scrawny in place of Cupid's broad muscles.

"Strife, I'm sorry... I didn't mean... are you hurt?"

Suddenly finding himself too close to his flustered cousin, Strife fought back a wave of self-consciousness. His baggy homespun, so unlike the comforting armor of black leather and metal studs left something to be desired in the wardrobe department. He never thought of his usual attire as comforting before, but it did provide him with some feeling of being apart- aloof, safe, cold. Wear enough leather, add a few bits and bobs of metal and a knife or two, and no one bothered you. At heart, Strife was awkward (dare we say shy? misunderstood, perhaps?), hiding behind his war-god-in-training image, and all that leather was just a part of the masquerade. Yet here he was as himself, gangly and barefoot, hair tousled from its usual artful arrangement of spikes, hand resting on Cupid's shoulder and the Love God didn't look anything but concerned. It was enough to make poor Strife feel dizzy once again.

The former God of Mischief found himself drawn from his musings as Cupid probed the bruise near his hairline.

"Ow, geez, Cupe. Lay off," he whined in a shadow of his formerly obnoxious voice, swatting at the offending hand without properly thinking the motion through– of course, it jostled the bruised muscles and bone of his shoulder and upper arm, leaving him breathless with the pain.

"I'm sorry! Oh.. I didn't... Tartarus. Herc, what happened?" Cupid gritted curses and rounded on his favorite uncle, stepping back from Strife lest he cause further injury. The former godling, bereft of immediate support from Cupid's muscular frame, sank into the arms of a still-stunned Iolaus. From a semi-prone position, Strife watched his cousin and Hercules exchange information, both looking angry and frustrated at turns. With half an ear he attempted to listen to their discussion, fighting to stay conscious as the silent hunter checked over his injuries once again. The older man drew back, fingertips stained red, and cast a startled glance to the arguing duo.

"Whatever it is, it can wait. We need to make a camp for now. Gal...er... Strife is hurt and I don't think he can go any further today."

Strife managed a weak smile, catching the hunter's warm, calloused hand in his own, enfolding the bloodied digits.

"Iolaus... I... just wanted to thank yah for everythin' you and the big guy have done. I know I ain't one ah your favorite people or nothin'... but thanks," murmured through teeth clenched around unfamiliar aches and pains, he watched the older man's expression soften somewhat.

"No thanks necessary, kid. You rest and we'll set up camp, huh? Maybe I can teach you to hunt later– a little more involved than fishing and a lot less wet. We'll set traps for rabbits and let Hercules do all the cooking."

The voice washed over Strife, calm and reassuring. The former godling smiled again, letting Iolaus' chatter soothe him into a peaceful oblivion.

Hercules studied his nephews through narrowed eyes, puzzling through the day's events with some effort. He knew that Galen had looked familiar- but never had he guessed that the bedraggled, lost youth had been the former God of Mischief. The two bore no resemblance to one another, and it was disconcerting to say the least. As for Cupid? The demi-god fought a sudden urge to snort, shaking his shaggy head. Aphrodite's son had always been incomprehensible to him- cool, aloof, distantly amused with the world, it seemed at times. And now here he was, pristine white wings trailing in the dirt as he carded careful fingers through Strife's blood-matted locks. The mind boggled.

Iolaus had disappeared, presumably hunting for their dinner. That left Hercules to finish setting up camp, and he did so with a practiced ease. Dumping a small armload of kindling, he moved to peer over the younger men, brows drawn toward the bridge of his nose in something that wasn't quite concern.

"How is he, Cupid?"

The young God jerked back guiltily, turning wide eyes upon the towering figure of his uncle. Shoulders hitched, his wings rustling with the movement.

"I dunno, Herc. Seems like he's just sleeping. Iolaus said he needed to rest," Cupid mumbled, rising fluidly. Agitated, he paced away from the small campsite, crossbow and quiver clanking against the tense muscles of his back.

Hercules frowned, following his nephew and coming to a halt a few paces away. He watched the young God reign in his temper, eyes flashing a shocking shade of green before fading to their typical hazel.

"Cupid, what's going on? I thought.. Well, I thought Strife was dead."

"He was. Zeus brought him back... dunno why. None of us do. Zeus just dropped him here and said not to interfere," and at that, Cupid blanched.

"Cupid?" Hercules' frown deepened, reaching to place a careful hand on the young God's shoulder.

"I.. I'm not supposed to be here. Oh, Mom really is gonna kill me. I was just supposed to pop down, check on things, yanno? Tartarus, I'm in for it now. You'll watch him, right Herc? Please?"

The God of Love was coming dangerously close to begging, hands curled into white-knuckled fists around his crossbow. Watching the demi-god with hopeful eyes, he failed to notice his cousin struggling back into consciousnesss.

Hercules pinched ineffectually at the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache right behind his eyes.

"Strife is alive and mortal... and no one knows why... Zeus is keeping everyone in the dark, and no one is supposed to interfere with him. Why?" The demi-god carefully voiced the question, watching his nephew abruptly go from panicking to angry.

"Because's he's a deceitful, manipulative bastard and enjoys stirring the rest of us up, and that's a good a reason as any. Just keep an eye on Strife, Herc. Please."

And directly following that explosion of temper, the God of Love disappeared, his typical golden display shot through with hints of red- more common in the God of War than his gentle son.

Hercules stared into the empty space formerly occupied by his nephew and felt the beginnings of his headache blossom, completely oblivious to the campsite behind him where a stricken former godling sat, eyes bright with unshed tears.

_Deceitful. Manipulative. _

_Is that what Cupid really thought? Had he really just been down here to check on me, to make sure I wasn't stirring up trouble with his favorite uncle?_

Strife blinked back tears, watching Hercules stalk off into the trees after Iolaus. The demi-god didn't so much as spare Strife a glance, and the casual dismissal cut the already distressed young man deeply. He didn't even pause to examine the feelings- they were too new, too foreign. His heart throbbing a painful counterpoint to his head, Strife struggled out of his bedroll.

Moving mechanically, he gathered a water skein and slung it carefully over his uninjured shoulder before grasping his staff and levering himself upright with a pained hiss. Vacant blue eyes swept over the small campsite before he shook his head, turning and moving away from the tidy pile of kindling and neatly spread blankets. They didn't want him- no one did. He was a burden, a failure, a _deceitful, manipulative bastard._ Jaw working, Strife clenched his teeth at the flare of heartache that threatened to send him to his knees.

Dispirited, he edged back toward the rutted path to Thebes. He would make his own way, find his own path- he wasn't going to be fool enough to trust in anyone else again. Mentally sealing himself away from the feelings that would surely drown him, he set off at an invalid's pace, a bitter smile twisting expressive features.

Ares snarled, a well-muscled forearm snaking out so he could tangle fingers in his son's harness. Cupid squeaked in a very undignified manner, bracing his legs to prevent the War God from pulling him off the temple's marbled floor.

"Just what do you think you were doing? Zeus could've fried you for that!" Ares growled in a low baritone, irritation and concern warring in dark eyes.

"Chill, pops... Mom had it covered, yanno? Zeus was off with Apollo and the Muses, some kinda festival thing- though by now it's probably like, an orgy. 'Specially if Mom's still there."

Cupid smirked, though mentally he shied at the thought of his mother and any of Apollo's greasy hangers-on. Ew. The Sun God had notoriously bad taste in lovers, and the Muses? Gag. The younger God shook himself out of that line of thought, untangling himself from his father's irate grasp with a huff.

"Don't do it again, Cupid," Ares muttered before fully releasing his wayward son, stepping back to rake still agitated hands through sable curls- the same loose waves that Strife's hair curled into when unmanaged, Cupid realized with a pang. Both Gods eyed one another with a similar mixture or weariness and sympathy, though no words passed between them.

With a terse nod of understand, the Love God blinked out of the temple, leaving his father to sink into his chair to brood. Hera had come by earlier in the day, no better informed than she had been prior to her little visit to the Fates. Ares snorted. The Fates, bah. Meddling hags, that trio...always up to something, and never up front about it. If it was one thing the War God could appreciate, it was simplicity- and the Fates were anything but.

Shaking himself from the edges of melancholy, Ares cast an appraising eye across the day's scrolls. Skirmish in Athens, a little border dispute near Mycenae, and there were two warlords making advances on the same territory. Sorting scrolls and mentally mapping out strategy, the War God found himself opening his mouth to bellow for Strife... only to pause, lips twisting. He hadn't made that mistake in years. This whole situation was really getting to him, and a distracted War God was not a good thing. Hissing in irritation, Ares blinked to scrolls to some of his underlings- let Deimos and Phobos sort out some of the smaller skirmishes, and Eris could steer the warlords into proper positions... well, once she finished with the bandits unfortunate enough to target her son earlier that day. Expression shifting into a fierce smirk, Ares blinked into the midst of the border dispute. A little mindless violence would take his mind off of things for a while.

Iolaus glared at his longtime friend, the small brace of rabbits he trapped for dinner lying discarded near the untended firepit. Hercules returned his stare levelly, only a hint of guilt shadowing his eyes.

"Herc, how could you just leave him alone?" Exasperated, the hunter threw up his hands, fighting a sudden urge to throttle his partner.

"He was _sleeping_, Iolaus. How was I to know he would wake up and wander off?" The demi-god seemed to share in his frustration, growling out his words.

They both continued their silent stand-off, each trying to sort through irritation and worry before saying anything they might regret. Finally, Iolaus sighed, dragging a hand through his shaggy blond locks.

"Look, Herc... I'm not blaming you. Maybe Strife just needed a little time alone and he wandered away. Maybe he'll be back in a little while. I mean, he doesn't know anyone and he has to know he's better of staying with us, right?" The smaller man looked hopeful, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as he spoke. As his larger friend nodded, he bent to retrieve the makings of dinner, thrusting the game into Hercules' capable hands before setting off, following the trail of footprints that led back toward the road.

"Good. I'm just going to check around and you can work on dinner," Iolaus tossed over his shoulder before melting into the lengthening shadows. Hercules just grinned ruefully, settling down to build the fire back up.

It didn't take long for Iolaus to return, muttering under his breath. Hercules wisely chose not to comment, offering his friend a bit of roasted rabbit. The hunter flopped down, practically inhaling his share of the food. Wiping greasy fingers on the patchwork of his vest, he turned a frown upon the silent demi-god.

"He's gone. I followed his footsteps to the road and lost them... looks like a caravan or two has gone by, probably on the way to the festival in Thebes, and marked over his tracks."

Hercules glanced away for a moment, trying to determine if he felt disappointed or relieved. He was disappointed he couldn't fulfill Cupid's wish for him to watch over Strife, but also relieved that the troublesome former God would no longer be residing in their camp. There was no love lost between Hercules and the House of War, after all. Trying to be tactful, he settled a somber gaze upon his obviously worried friend.

"Iolaus, I'm sure he's fine. He has some provisions and a weapon, and he definitely knows how to use it. The Gods are watching out for him."

The hunter just shrugged, settling down onto his blankets for the night, listening to Hercules do the same nearby. He wasn't as certain as Hercules that their former charge would be fine on his own. Feeling a bit of foreboding, Iolaus tried to drift into sleep... though rest was to be a long time coming this night.


	7. full of wicked designs

_Insert my usual rambling about how much I regret that these characters and their little universe do not belong to me and never will. And be forewarned, it's gonna get real ugly from here on out. Not a place for the kiddies._

Aphrodite untangled herself from a pile of well-formed limbs, smirking at one of the Muses as she murmured a sleepy objection to being disturbed. Muses... always some of the last to leave a good party. The Goddess of Love stood back, surveying the small disaster area with no small amount of pride. Zeus was buried somewhere beneath the pile of Muses, Apollo was curled loosely around a snoring Bacchus, and was that Demeter draped over a satyr? Or was it two satyrs? Maybe a nymph, Aphrodite conceded with a muffled giggle. Definitely a bitchin' party.

Standing back, she noticed the continued absence of her son with a little pang. Poor kiddo, she really ought to check in on him... and then on Eris. Not that the House of War usually partook in these little soirees, but Eris had been known to sneak in and set the Muses to arguing over who got to cuddle up with Apollo or Asclepsius, and there was that time some of the residents of Asphodel popped in just to irk Demeter. Ah, gotta love the whole family.

Speaking of which... Aphrodite blinked what appeared to be a compact into her manicured hand, flipping it open to peer into the small scrying mirror concealed within. She watched Strife curl up beneath a tree for the night, watched him shiver in the cool air, watched him grimace at an inability to find a comfortable position with his bruises and bumps. Content that he was safe, if not entirely well, she blinked the small mirror back into nonexistence (or wherever those things come and go from) and heaved a sigh.

Time to go play dutiful and overbearing mother. She took a breath, readying herself to blink over to Cupid's temple... and then paused, glancing down at herself. Hrm. Maybe a quick bath first. Of course she could just think herself clean, but a nice bubble bath was so much more relaxing. With a giggle, Aphrodite blinked out to her own temple, intending to spend the next few hours relaxing and primping.

Strife awoke to a dull but insistent throbbing in both his head and his shoulder. Groaning, he uncurled stiff limbs and came face to face with a leering stranger. He yelped, scrambling upright despite the warning protest of muscles and his pounding skull. Almost without conscious effort, he found himself holding his staff in a defensive position, stance loose and anticipating attack.

The man chuckled, visibly amused by Strife's panic. He stepped back, easing outside of the striking range of the younger man's staff.

"Hello, pretty. Lost, are you?" And he leered again, dark eyes flashing beneath heavy brows.

Strife regarded the man warily, taking stock of his potential opponent. He was easily as tall as Ares, muscled just like his aggressive uncle. Dressed in well-worn leathers, a sword was slung low on one hip, a whip and a set of keys riding the other. Strife felt his heart sink- not only was the many physically imposing, but he obviously knew how to handle himself and his weapons.

"You're a quiet one, pretty. All alone in the woods, too. Tell Darius, are you lost?" His words were gentle, but his voice... it made Strife's skin crawl.

"No. M'not lost. M'goin' ta Thebes... yanno, road's that way," Strife shot back, jerking a thumb in the direction he knew the road to be. The man's smile widened just a fraction.

"Got a mouth on you, pretty. I like a bit of spirit."

Strife found himself slowly edging back, bumping his sore shoulder against the tree that had been sheltering his rest. He forced himself to stillness, glaring at the stranger through blue eyes gone cold as ice.

"M'not pretty," he muttered, almost hissing the pet name.

"Oh, but you are. Get you cleaned up a bit, with that skin and those eyes... someone'll pay a pretty dinar for a lad like you."

The man's grin widened again, avarice glittering in his eyes. He took a step in Strife's direction and found himself dodging back as the youth swung his staff in a clean arch. Darius' expression darkened, grin faltering into a startled grimace.

"Pretty's got teeth, hm? We'll just have to pull those."

Strife smirked, spinning the staff in lazy circles, keeping the other man at bay. His muscles may be stiff and bruised but they were familiar with the use of this weapon. The former godling found himself silently thanking his uncle for making him train with a variety of weapons, not allowing him to rely on his godly powers alone in battle.

"Back off, why don'cha? M'just tryin' ta get ta Thebes."

"Now, pretty... I just can't let you go. You're valuable- more so than I originally thought. Put the toy down and I won't have to hurt you."

Darius sneered, edging closer to Strife again. The younger man shook his head in silent denial, swinging the staff to ward his would-be attacker back. The man grinned wolfishly and swept his sword out to meet the staff, slicing it neatly in two. Strife gaped for a moment and then bolted, throwing his lithe frame through the trees heedless of the scratches he was earning from the grasping undergrowth. He could hear pursuit, but couldn't tell from which direction it was coming.

Lungs burning, Strife stumbled and found himself sprawling headlong into the brush. He lay panting for a moment, hearing only the sounds of the forest and his own harsh breathing. Somewhere he'd lost his borrowed water skein, and noticing that just made his thirst that much worse. Groaning, he clambered upright. Now he was well and truly lost. Muttering some choice words, he picked a direction and set off... only to find himself caught by the back of his homespun tunic.

"Going somewhere, pretty?"

Strife twisted around in desperation just in time to have a fist connect with the dark bruising on his temple. He dropped like a stone, stars exploding behind his eyes. Dimly, he felt the cold kiss of metal around his wrists and the slim column of his neck... and then he slid into darkness.

Cupid lounged across a scattering of pillows, wings tucked tightly back so no feathers would suffer for his current lack of posture. He was watching his son sleep, a pastime that he always found relaxing. Bliss sprawled in his own small mound of cushions, thumb tucked in his lips, golden curls in disarray. He looked... well, angelic. Cupid knew better- once the little cherub was awake, all illusions of peace would be lost to the whirling dervish that was a toddler.

Stroking a calloused hand across his son's tousled head, he thought about the godling's mother. Psyche. Their relationship had been based mostly on lust- she was beautiful, after all. Once the effects of his arrow had worn off (and how much teasing had he endured for shooting himself), he found he didn't really _love _her. Their marriage had been brief but happy, and Bliss had come from the union. While he had been saddened to find the formerly mortal woman was not his true soul mate, he didn't think he would've changed a thing about their past. He and Psyche still got along, taking care of their child at turns. She had moved into Athena's temple, still mastering her godhood.

Sighing, he rolled onto his stomach and peered irritably at the day's batch of scrolls. Not one of today's matches would bring him close to Thebes. Maybe he could just... no. He had meddled enough yesterday, and couldn't risk another trip. Strife was fine, Hercules would make certain of that. Puzzled as to why he was so concerned with his younger cousin's well being and fighting back a sudden urge to check the mirror for his whereabouts, he returned attentions to the day's work. True love match here, quick flash of lust there... at the very least it would keep him busy. Making plans, he waited for his son to awake so he could drop the toddler by 'Dite's temple. Grandma's day to watch the rambunctious little godling.

Struggling back into consciousness, Strife realized two things: one, he had the most awful headache, like he could actually feel the blood pounding in his bruised skull; and two, he was naked. That could not be good. Quelling a whimper in the depths of his throat, he peered blearily at his surroundings.

For all appearances, it looked like a stable. He had been sprawled in his own rough wooden stall, another appearing across the way. Squinting, Strife could make out another figure curled in the shadows. Sitting up, he lifted a hand to sweep errant bits of straw from his hair... or, he tried to. Dazed, he eyed the metal bands circling thin wrists, the shackles effectively hobbling his attempts at grooming. Heavier bands circled his ankles, a chain leading from one of the restraints to a bolt in the back wall of what he had begun to regard as his pen. Grimacing, he tipped his head to one side, feeling another metal loop circling his neck, biting into his collarbone as he tried to sneak a peek at it. No chains were attached to that particular bit of jewelry yet, and he felt immensely relieved by that.

The sounds of approaching footsteps drove all further attempts at exploring his current predicament from his scattered mind. Instinctively, he curled in on himself, trying to hide his body from potential danger. A low chuckle sounded, and he risked a quick glance upward. Darius, his captor, stood at the bars of the little enclosure, staring down with no small amount of amusement.

"So glad you're awake, pretty. Now we can appraise you a bit better, hm?"

Strife glared, chains rattling as he abruptly threw himself at the older man. His frenzied motion was brought up short by a tug on his ankle, and he very nearly pitched into the straw-covered floor. Spitting curses, Strife righted himself and sneered at the man.

"Better believe that I'mma kill yah when I get outta this," he snarled in a pale imitation of Ares' enraged bellow.

A length of whip suddenly uncurled in the bigger man's hands, and he eyed the enraged former godling with no small amount of interest.

"Tsk, pretty... I might like you with spirit, but I doubt our customers will appreciate the mouth on you. I think we had better start teaching you some manners."

Strife quailed inside, a slow horror creeping up his spine, widening those pale blue eyes. Outwardly, he maintained a stony silence, glaring defiantly at his captor. The slaver, for he was obviously a dealer in human flesh, grinned widely as he swung open the barred doorway and stepped inside the narrow space.

"Definitely start with some manners. Now, I want you to pay attention to _everything_ I say, pretty. Repeat it back to me after I say it."

While he spoke, he swung the whip idly, the leather whispering across the floor. Strife watched it with a morbid sort of fascination, hissing in surprise as the bigger man suddenly wrenched at the chain binding his wrists together.

"Pay. Attention," Darius ground out, looping the short chain through a hook on the wall before Strife could properly react. His arms effectively pinned just above his head, ankle tethered to the opposite wall, Strife found himself in a very uncomfortable position. To avoid having the shackles dig into his wrists or his ankle, he had to stand awkwardly- arms stretched high, one foot braced back in a stance that bared the long lines of his body to the slaver's interested gaze.

"Quite a prize I caught in the woods," the older man murmured to himself as he stood back, just out of sight. Strife couldn't catch a glimpse of his tormentor, not without some serious contortions of his torso and neck... and his posture was already reawakening the throbbing ache in his bruised shoulder. He startled when the other man spoke again, trying not to shudder at the man's words.

"You will repeat everything I say word for word, pretty. Rule by rule. Ready?"

He didn't give the younger man time to answer, snaking the whip back with a whistling displacement of air to lay a line of fire across the exposed plane of Strife's back.

"One. I will be respectful to my betters."

Strife bit back a scream, biting at the insides of his cheeks. He wasn't going to give this man the satisfaction. His betters, indeed. He was a God, for Zeus' sake. Or, he had been. He could've squashed this petty little man like a bug. Comforting himself with visions of the slaver's gruesome death, he missed the second crack of the whip, jerking as another line burned across his upper back.

"Oh, pretty... I can see this will take some time. Let's try again. One. I will respect my betters."

The whip bit again, and Strife hissed, trying to yank his wrists down. Metal bit into his flesh, abrading, scraping... distantly, he felt blood begin to wend lazy rivulets down his straining arms... and still the whip whistled, biting into exposed skin with precision.

"One. I will respect my betters," continued Darius, his voice insistently droning in the background of Strife's pain.

Iolaus had been unable to resist another effort at tracking their wayward former charge. Hercules, patient as always in the face of his companion's exuberance, watched the smaller man disappear into the treeline. Smothering a yawn, he watched the traffic on the rutted path to Thebes with mild interest. He hadn't precisely been looking forward to the festival, but it would be a welcome distraction from whatever mess his family was currently embroiled in. Disquieted, he recalled the plea in Cupid's hazel eyes... and the faint stirrings of guilt. Strife would be fine. He probably had any number of Gods looking out for him at this very moment. The demi-god's expression darkened as he thought of his half-brother, Ares. No doubt _he_ was watching after Strife... the boy had been his protege, after all.

He had just managed to bury his guilt under the beginnings of self-righteous anger (after recalling some of Strife's antics at his half-brother's behest) when Iolaus reemerged from the lengthening shadows of the surrounding forest. Hercules frowned, eyeing the items his friend was carrying.

"What is th-..."

He trailed off, noting the hunter's grim expression as he twirled the severed halves of Strife's staff in capable hands.

Hercules groaned, burying his face in his hands for a long moment.

"Cupid is going to kill me..."

Iolaus snorted, tossing the useless bits of staff back into the underbrush before he managed a half-hearted swat at his friend's broadly muscled shoulder.

"Nah, Herc... but I wouldn't count on either of us being too lucky with the ladies any time soon."

Another groan, and the two set off into the trees in search of the missing former God of Mischief.


	8. be my saviour

_Hullo again, and thanks so much to my first reviewer, Ms. Sparkly Green. You are a goddess, dollface. And insert usual disclaimers here, while I'm at the rambling... yanno, not mine, but still I like to tinker so here we are. Stick with me, it gets better. And darker, so lookout._

Strife's world had narrowed to the tiny space in which he had been confined, to the tickle of straw beneath bare feet, the stripes of agony wending across his back and upper thighs, the feel of manacles digging into the raw flesh of wrists and ankles, and the sounds of human misery that drifted from the other pens. Darius had disappeared after the last time he lost consciousness, and the befuddled former godling couldn't decide if that had been hours ago or days ago.

He had borne the man's attempt at training in a miserable silence, head bowed against the taut line of an arm. Even now, he could manage a smile of savage pride that he had not uttered a single one of the hateful phrases his tormentor insisted he repeat. Someone would come for him, he just knew it. He comforted himself with the thought that someone on Olympus had to be watching... and they would come stop this. Cupid...

The first hints of tears brimmed in blood-shot eyes as Strife resolutely thrust that thought aside. His beautiful cousin wouldn't stoop so low as to rescue something so vile as himself from a slaver's camp. Perhaps Ares? That thought had a little more merit, and he wrapped visions of Ares storming the camp and rending Darius and his underlings limb from limb around him like a security blanket, resolutely ignoring aches and pains and the dull gnawing of hunger.

The gate of his pen creaked again, his captor reappearing with a new set of instruments, whip hanging loosely in his grasp. The bigger man watched his latest challenge mentally distance himself from his tormented body, watched those pale blue eyes grow distant.

"Shall we continue, pretty?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as he abruptly twisted the smaller man around in his bonds, pressing the shredded skin of his back against the rough wooden wall. Strife gasped, gaze sharpening as he was drawn back into the here and now. Darius just smiled at him, turning to examine the small assortment of tools he brought along for this particular session.

"Where were we? Oh, yes. One. I will respect my betters."

Surveying his third battlefield for the day, Ares fought the sudden urge to incite a massacre and be done with the mess. These two warlords had proven more than stubborn, refusing to meet and discuss terms. Usually, Ares had no interest in stopping a war... but this one had gone on longer than he originally intended, spreading to damage crops and culling the populations of neighboring towns. Not the way he intended things at all, and soon Demeter would be down here shrieking about spoiling a perfectly good harvest.

Gripping the bridge of his nose, he drew a deep breath and fought back a wave of frustration. Tartarus, where was his interfering half-brother when he needed him?

"Eris!"

Bellowing in his deep baritone, he was mildly astonished when his twin appeared before he had even finished calling for her. The Goddess of Discord smiled unpleasantly, swiping a bloodied dagger across a leather-clad thigh before sliding it into a sheath strapped to one slender wrist.

"Something I can do for you, bro? Kill something? Maim something?"

Ares grinned affectionately at her, pleased she had stopped brooding over Strife's predicament. At least she had stopped watching that mirror for days on end.

"Think you can stir up a little unrest in the soldiers of that camp? Dissuade them from fighting the other camp in favor of... Oh, I don't know... killing the idiot warlord in charge of this disaster?"

Eris scoffed, digging a painful elbow into her brother's side before disappearing in a flash of red-tinged purple. Her voice lingered, amusement tinging the husky contralto.

"Too easy, 'Res... too easy."

Satisfied that his plans would soon be back on track, he nodded and flashed out to oversee the border skirmish he'd left Deimos in charge of watching. Hades only knew what that situation could have devolved into during his absence.

"Cupie, doll, get down here right now!"

Aphrodite stomped her small feet, indignation fairly pouring from her slender frame in palpable waves. Hands perched on hips, she waited impatiently for her son to make an appearance.

"Cupid!"

Another demanding shout as the Love God failed to make an immediate appearance. She was in no mood for his dawdling. Noting a muted flash of gold to her left, she spun and glared at the scowling God of Love.

"I'm kinda busy mom, like.. What is your damage?"

Aphrodite could only stare, gesturing behind her to where a seemingly happy couple basked in one another's presence, radiating joy. Cupid's brows quirked, confusion obvious on his handsome features.

"Yeah, and? They're happy... I mean, I know she was supposed to be getting married to some like, old king or something but she really liked that guy and he liked her, so I figured..." he trailed off, watching his mother turn an interesting shade of magenta.

"Cupid! You are supposed to follow that," and here she jabbed a painted nail at the scroll held loosely in his grasp, "list and it did not say anything about those two being all cute and googly-eyed. She's supposed to get married to that "old king" and he was going to dedicate a new temple to me and now you've gone and spoiled it. You are so irresponsible!"

Another stamp of delicate feet, blue eyes flashing in outrage. Cupid smothered a sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh. Trust his mother to get all bent out of shape over the loss of a temple... not like she didn't have enough, right?

"Geez, Mom... they're happy. She would've been miserable with the king dude. This is true love, can't you see it?"

Aphrodite rounded on the cuddling couple, narrowing her eyes at the mortals. A filmy blue haze surrounded them, and her rage evaporated in a sigh.

"You're right, Cupe... but try to stick to the list, huh? I'll see if we can't work something in there to get you back in Thebes if you promise..."

She smiled sweetly, watching her son's expression flicker in disbelief. Cupid nodded tightly, swooping forward to brush a kiss across his mother's forehead.

"'Kay, Mom.. I promise."

Beaming, the Goddess of Love dismissed her son with a little waggle of digits, watching him disappear in a flash of gold tinged in red. Sticking her tongue out at the oblivious mortals, she flashed out behind him, hurrying to Olympus to make sure her irritation hadn't prompted the development of a new wrinkle.

Strife sagged limply against his bonds, feeling the muscles in his arms and back protest the weight dragging him downward. Blood and thicker things oozed in rivulets down his arms, his back, his thighs... the burns on his chest pulled and itched, leaving him feeling scrubbed raw. The sensitive skin around his nipples had been pierced, the needles remaining for his tormentor to twist and tug whenever the battered former godling drifted into the safety of his mind. Unable to escape the twisted wreckage of his body, he sobbed, trying to muffle the sound by burying his face in the swelling joint of his shoulder.

Darius yanked his head back, hand fisted in sweaty sable locks. He bent slightly, licking at the curve of Strife's neck. The younger man jerked, hissing as he reawakened the dull stinging in his back.

"Almost, pretty... almost. I can taste it on you."

The older man reached to twist at the needles embedded artfully in Strife's chest, satisfied with the pained whimpers escaping the slave's throat. His broad fingers drifted lower, brushing nether regions, fondling flaccid flesh. Strife's eyes shot wide, denial written in broad strokes across those expressive features.

"Say it for me, pretty. You know what I want to hear."

Something inside the former godling shattered, crumbling to ruin and leaving him almost wordless in his despair. Dull blue eyes focused on nothing as he murmured the damning phrase.

"I will respect mah betters."

Darius smirked, giving Strife's genitals a last, vicious twist before standing back to survey the youth.

"So smart, pretty. So good. Now, two. I will obey my betters."

And he smiled wider still when the phrase was repeated back to him in subdued tones. He did so love his job.

Weary but satisfied, Cupid sank into an overlarge tub, bubbles frothing almost to his neck. He hadn't once deviated from the scroll, even though it irked him to match mortals according to some of his relatives' twisted designs. That poor girl now professing undying love to a goat, for instance... just because Zeus had taken an interest in her and been careless enough to allow Hera to notice. The God of Love sighed, rolling the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders, water sloshing onto the marble floor as he resettled in the bath.

At least he could be assured his mother wouldn't be shrieking at him again any time soon. Maybe she'd even follow through with her promise to sneak him back toward Thebes, though Cupid didn't hold out too much hope. More than likely his mother would forget, or hold out for the promise of something better... like an appearance at some awful festival or orgy. He really despised some of those, despite his play-boy appearance he really had no interest in engaging in casual sex with half of Olympus. 'Course, now that 'Dite was married, she had to live vicariously through someone... and that someone usually ended up being her handsome son.

Swallowing a sigh, Cupid eased himself out of the bath, flapping his wings to rid them of the worst of the damp. Still nude, he settled onto a low bench, meticulously straightening and preening feathers as he willed a scrying mirror into existence on the far wall. Time to check in on Hercules and his charge. The image flickered, wavering, and Cupid frowned as he spotted his uncle and the hunter... but no Strife. Perplexed, he commanded the mirror to find his cousin, frown deepening as the image swirled and reformed to reveal...

The God of Love struggled to make sense of the image, some part of him mentally shying away from what he was staring at. His cousin was shackled to a wall, bloodied and bruised, head hanging so that his chin just touched his chest, a shaggy curtain of hair obscuring his features. Cupid gaped for a long moment, emotions warring for dominance as he watched Strife struggle to raise his head, vacant blue eyes peering from the shadows. He watched the former godling form words, dimly registering the phrase as anger and despair bloomed in his chest, threatening to choke him.

"Mom! Ares! Someone... anyone..."

He caught his breath, the image flickering to silver as his concentration on the image wavered. Cupid sank back to his bench, willing clothes into place as his mother and father blinked in simultaneously, the former looking concerned and the latter vaguely annoyed.

Aphrodite hurried over to her son's side, a comforting hand settling onto his shoulder as she eyed him.

"Cupie, what's wrong? Shh, tell us."

Ares just rolled his eyes, watching 'Dite coddle their fully grown son. Tartarus, but the boy was too old to act like this. He strode forward, brushing past the cooing Goddess of Love to stare down at the distraught Cupid.

"Spit it out, Cupid. I was in the middle of..."

He trailed off, following his son's wordless gesture to the mirror on the far wall, squinting as the mirror swirled and an image firmed. For a second the trio stood silent, jaws clenching, nails curling to bite into palms. Then as one...

"ZEUS!"


	9. bargaining chips

_Yup, still here and still tormenting my boys. Sadly, they're still not mine. But I'mma stick around and see how the muses drag me, and you stick around and enjoy. The action is just beginning._

The King of the Gods lounged indolently, having finally finished dealing with the day's petty squabbles. Honestly, Olympus would fall apart without him to sort through every little thing. He snorted, dismissing Ganymede with a quick gesture. The youth flashed a grin and disappeared, still juggling an odd assortment of scrolls that needed to be delivered to various and sundry temples.

Zeus reached for his goblet of wine, wondering if perhaps Hera was busy enough not to notice if he should slip down to visit that lovely young girl again today... what was her name again? Frowning, he brought the goblet to his lips and sipped delicately at its contents just as the collective bellowing from Cupid's temple reached him. The elder God startled, wine sloshing a dark path across his blue toga. With a scowl he blinked himself clean and over to the younger God's temple... only to find himself in what appeared to be Cupid's bathing chambers.

A brow arched in slow condescension as he eyed the clustered trio of Gods.

"You bellowed, children?"

"Oh, pops, we have to help him. The poor... well.. You can't really be serious about no one interfering with.." 'Dite found herself on the receiving end of one of her father's less benign looks and faltered into silence, wringing her manicured hands in agitation.

"I will not here any more about Strife."

Ares stepped forward, favoring his father with a glare that would've sent mortals screaming for the hills. Zeus eyed his aggressive son dispassionately, daring him to say anything. To the elder God's surprise, it was Cupid that risked opening his mouth.

"Zeus, please... he needs help. Let Ares..." and he too was silenced, Zeus making an abrupt gesture that indicated he would hear no more on the topic.

"No God shall interfere with Strife. I thought I was quite clear on that point. Now, I will not be disturbed by this matter again."

Zeus favored the trio with a domineering gaze once again before he flashed out of the temple, a peal of thunder sounding in his wake.

Aphrodite was horrified to discover she had begun chewing on a nail during the interlude and she jerked fingers away from her mouth with a little squeak. Cupid maintained a stony silence, hands clenched at his sides. Only Ares seemed... pleased, somehow. A smirk began to inch its way onto the War God's face, those dark eyes narrowed in intense thought. 'Dite cast him a sidelong look, wondering if she should worry about whatever he was planning.

"Zeus said no _God_ could interfere, but a mortal... he didn't say anything about mortals," he finally murmured, looking thoughtful.

"I already tried that, yanno... left him with Herc and now look what's happened," mumbled Cupid, feeling betrayed and guilty all at once.

"Hercules is hardly what I would consider a fitting guardian for Strife," Ares sneered, though a reassuring pat on one of Cupid's broad shoulders took the sting out of his words.

Aphrodite just watched the two in a sort of dawning amusement and relief. There was obviously some sort of plan being formed here, and it was probably best that she knew as little about it as possible.

"Well, boys... just let me know if I can help. Yanno, maybe keep an eye on Cupid's duties for a bit," she offered in an offhand manner, feigning nonchalance with ease. All right, maybe she was plotting a bit too, but a girl needs some fun, right? Giggling as her son's expression shifted from guilty to downright pole-axed, she flashed out of the temple, fully intent on repairing the damage to her manicure.

After departing Cupid's temple, Zeus flashed down to the mortal realm, shocking his son. Hercules stared for a long moment, suspicion chasing surprise from his tanned features.

"Zeus."

He spoke evenly, the name thrown down like a challenge. The King of the Gods smothered a sigh and stepped towards his son. Iolaus chose that moment to come barreling out of the woods, dangling a battered water skein. He skidded to a halt, doing an admirable impression of a goldfish.

"Herc! Urm... why is he..." he broke off with a wordless gesture, trying not to squirm under the God's amused gaze.

"He can see you. Why can he see you, Zeus? Usually you're more for the invisible tormenting," the demi-god practically hissed, drawing his smaller friend behind the broad shield of his own body.

"Now, Hercules, I've never tormented you," Zeus chided gently.

"Never been much help to him either," Iolaus shot back before Hercules could catch him with a sharp elbow. Huffing, he settled back into silence.

Zeus merely quirked a brow at the impudent mortal. No wonder Aphrodite liked the boy so much, with spirit and a mouth like that.

Hercules cleared his throat, drawing his father's attention back to the duo.

"I just thought I'd stop by, say hello... ask if you've seen anything _unusual_ lately," apparent disinterest dripped from the words.

"What do you... wait. Strife. You're talking about Strife. Where is he?"

"What a conclusion to jump to, Hercules. I didn't know you even cared for the boy," and Zeus bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bestowing a pleased smile on his son.

"This isn't a game, Zeus. He's new to his mortality and you just abandoned him. Now tell us where he is."

Iolaus grimaced, placing a restraining hand on his friend's arm. Antagonizing Zeus? Probably not the best way to go about things, not to mention the fact that Iolaus had no desire to be visiting Hades again any time in the near future.

"What he means is, we'd really like to make sure that Strife is all right. If you could tell us he doesn't need our help, or if he does, you could tell us where he might be," the hunter trailed off, looking hopefully at the King of the Gods.

Zeus couldn't help but laugh, applauding the small man's attempt at diplomacy.

"Ah, Hercules. Your friend has always been the tactful one- charming, that silver tongue of his. 'Dite would be proud," and he bestowed a fatherly smile on the blushing hunter.

"Zeus. Where is he?" Hercules repeated his demand, determined to get a straight answer.

"Unless I am mistaken, someone will be along very shortly to request some help rescuing the boy. He... at least, I think it will be a he... knows where Strife is."

Zeus was no fool- Ares would've caught the way he phrased his rules, and certainly the War God would exploit the obvious loophole. In fact, Zeus was counting on it. His only uncertainty was the matter of who would be sent to watch over the former God of Mischief. Ares himself wasn't likely to risk giving up his godhood for any amount of time- not that the rest of the pantheon would allow such. Perhaps one of his underlings? Or Aphrodite could loan out one of the lesser members of the House of Love. For some inexplicable reason, the Houses of Love and War seemed to be conspiring together of late... and that perplexed Zeus more than it worried him. Not as if the union of the two Houses was unheard of, as Cupid's very existence proved.

A tug in the back of his awareness assured him that someone had just given over their godhood, though Zeus couldn't pinpoint anything beyond... ah. House of Love it was after all. Nodding serenely to his bewildered son and an uncharacteristically silent Iolaus, the King of the Gods disappeared with a clap of thunder.

Thirsty. Thirsty and hollow. Disconnected, watching boots come and go with a detached interest. Needles whispered in and out of abused flesh, tiny rings left in their place. At some point a bucket of water had come and gone, leaving a feeling of _raw_ and _cold_. None too gently blood and other bodily fluids were scrubbed away, milk pale flesh peeking through grime and around bruises. A patchwork of darkness, redness, shininess... artwork on the canvas of a slender body. Words and phrases repeated until someone had been satisfied, mocking laughter chasing away the last of the light. Something surfaced, swimming up behind the vacancy in dull blue eyes before the clink of chains drowned it again. A voice drove everything back into despair and hurt, fine tremors returning to accompany the thirst and the hollowness.

"Ready for your next lesson, pretty?"

And someone was screaming without sound as the lesson began.

Cupid staggered, feeling vaguely if his insides had been suddenly and violently rearranged. It wasn't but a moment or two later that he found himself staring up..(up?)... at a concerned Ares.

"Cupid. Breathe."

Dizzy, the God of Love complied, drawing several deep breaths before the room ceased spinning in sickening circles around him. The floor seemed to have stopped trying to buck him as well. Reassured, he risked an effort at sitting up, wondering why he felt so _wrong_.

"My wings. You took my wings," he mumbled the hazy accusation at his father upon discovering just _why_ he felt off. The loss of his wings had destroyed his balance, and he found himself wobbling as the older God just stared mildly at him.

"You couldn't go down there with those, Cupid. Wings would have drawn more attention than you're going to want. Just take a minute and get used to it," Ares ordered, a trace of his usual irritation surfacing.

Cupid just grumbled, pacing back and forth until he could relocate his center of gravity. It felt strange not to have to readjust his steps to reduce drag on his wings. Feeling less wobbly, he turned an expectant gaze on his father.

Ares looked the younger God over with a critical eye. He would need... well, a change of clothing to begin. Snapping his fingers, Cupid's harness vanished to be replaced by a loose homespun shirt, the material softer and more durable than typical homespun, and in a soft shade of green. The leather pants could stay with a few minor alterations- like the inclusion of a sword belt and a serviceable blade. Stepping back, he began producing other necessary items- a water skein, coin pouch, bedroll and blankets, some rudimentary salves and clean strips of linens, a bag to carry everything in...

Cupid paced, distantly aware of his father's preparations on his behalf. He knew the older God didn't want him to go running off to Strife's rescue. Ares had wanted to send one of his minions, arguing they were better equipped to deal with the mortal realm- battle ready, ruthless, more experienced with mortals in general. Cupid had waved all of the arguments away, determined to rectify his earlier mistakes... it was his fault Strife was in his current predicament, if only he hadn't left the vulnerable former godling in the care of Hercules. Not that Hercules was a bad guy, but really... he should've stayed.

Swallowing his remorse, he stalked to Ares' side to collect the provisions for his little trip. Part of his mind was screaming- he had voluntarily given up his godly powers, his immortality, and for what? To go traipsing around the mortal realm to help Strife? Strife, the former God of Mischief, the giggling, maniacal, violent, unbalanced... shy, stammering, awkward, lost, vulnerable... oh, Gods. Cupid groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Ares, misinterpreting his son's distress, eyed him warily.

"If you've changed your mind, I can get Deimos or Phobos down there in a flash. They won't be missed any time soon."

Peeking between his fingers, the now-former God of Love stared hard at the God of War. Steeling himself, he lowered his hands and collected his traveling gear. Ares smothered a feral grin at his son's resolution, slipping a blood-red pendant on a leather thong around the youth's neck.

"In case of serious emergency. Zeus won't take my interference lightly, so think about it before you call. Now. Jerkules," and he bit back a pained smile at Strife's old nickname for his bastard half-brother, "is still in the area, so if you need help... I suppose you can ask him. It would be easier for you just to... purchase Strife. No chance of things going wrong."

Neither of them looked thrilled with that plan, but it was by far the most simple way to go about things. Ares was aching to shed the slavers' blood, but Cupid wasn't a warrior... he'd be lucky to escape with his life, much less Strife's freedom. So they'd work in the system instead of destroying it, at least for now. Hefting a bag of coins, he passed it wordlessly to Cupid, who managed a tight nod.

Refusing to get caught up in some distressingly touching father-son moment, he simply nodded in return and flashed Cupid into Thebes. Now both former godlings were truly on their own.

Cupid stood, arms crossed, expression carefully trained into lines of boredom with just the faintest hint of irritation. Narrowed hazel eyes regarded the man before him, raking across the whip held loosely at his side. The man smiled, revealing a row of uneven, yellowing teeth, and Cupid fought back the urge to ram them down his throat with a well-aimed punch.

"So do you have what I'm looking for..?"

"You are more than welcome to take a look at my...wares," Darius' voice was oily, avarice flickering behind dark eyes.

Indicating that a guided tour of the slaves would indeed please him, Cupid was rewarded with another greedy smile and a motion toward what appeared to be a stable of some sort. He followed Darius at a sedate pace, fighting to maintain his disaffected facade as the doors to the stable swung wide. The smell that wafted from the depths of the building left the former God of Love reeling, and the sounds... whimpering, pleading, mindless sobbing, the occasional scream... it was enough to break through his carefully crafted persona for an instant. Darius squinted, gauging the supposedly wealthy young man's reaction with interest.

"Troubled, my lord? Perhaps you would prefer to wait for auction day?"

Forcing himself back into the role he had assumed, Cupid managed a firm shake of his head, favoring the slaver with a cold glare.

"I refuse to wait that long. I know what I want and I will reward you handsomely if you have something that pleases me," he hissed, relieved and a little sickened to see the other man's easy acceptance.

"If you tell me what you are looking for in a slave, my lord, perhaps I can help you in your search. A bodyguard? A concubine?"

Cupid tilted his head to the side, feigning deep thought on the subject. His words, when they came, were drawn out and low, as if spoken in great secrecy.

"I wish a... companion. Young. Male. Slender. Someone to serve as a body slave," the former God trailed off, letting the other man jump to whatever conclusions he pleased.

Darius fairly lit up, leading his potential buyer through the dimly lit stable to a series of small pens.

"Ah, of course. You may find something that pleases you here, my lord. Pretty boys, this handful down here. That one's a bit young, but he will train beautifully... and that one has the face of an angel. A pleasure to look upon, I assure you."

First indicating a boy of no more than eleven, who watched them with ancient green eyes set in a pale, elfin-sharp face and then a slender youth with delicate features partially concealed behind a tangled fall of mahogany waves. Aching at the sight of such beauty and innocence pent up in darkness, Cupid could only shake his head. Darius pursed his lips, continuing down the line of pens, describing the attributes of each slave as he passed.

"This one's a bit older, but a nice body on him... good muscles from farm work, I believe. And this lad, a bit delicate but docile as a lamb."

And so it went, Cupid eyeing each slave carefully only to dismiss them in the end. Darius was clearly becoming frustrated, and the former God of Love sought to distract him by indicating the last pen in the row.

"And that one, what virtue will you claim that one has?"

"This one? No interest to you, my lord. Too willful by half, and he has suffered some... damage from being disciplined."

Swallowing his heart, Cupid stalked across to peer within the small enclosure. Someone was curled within, pale body drawn into a huddle in the far corner. Shackles gilded in blood trailed from wrists and ankles, clearly making it awkward to find a comfortable position to rest in. Dark hair, matted and tangled, obscured the youth's features, and Cupid longed for the slave to raise his head... he needed to know...

"You should be more careful with your merchandise, Darius."

"He has to be taught, my lord. So did any of my boys catch your eye? You looked interested in my red-headed angel, hm?"

Cupid held his ground, refusing to let the taller man escort him back down the line of slave pens.

"No, I want to see this one more closely. Wake him for me," he commanded, trying to do justice to his father's imperious tones.

"That one's already spoken for, young lord," rang out a new voice, echoing oddly in the stable's stifling interior.

Cupid didn't have to feign the growl that escaped him as he craned around, trying to glimpse the new arrival. A broad frame stood silhouetted in the doorway, features indistinguishable in the murky lighting. Unwilling to engage the stranger in an argument, especially since his chosen person wouldn't stoop to battling over an unruly slave, Cupid held his both palms up in concession.

"My apologies, then. I was just curious as to how his training was proceeding," he offered to the stranger before settling a weak glare on Darius.

"None of your wares please me especially. I am... disappointed," and ignoring the sounds of protest, he strode forward and brushed past the stranger, disappearing out into sunlight and clear air.

Tartarus, this was unexpected. He and Ares had hardly planned for this, for someone to purchase Strife before he was able to do so. Cursing softly, he broke into a light jog, determined to find another way.

Hercules. Hercules and Iolaus would help him. If he couldn't rescue his cousin without violence, then he would surely take that stable apart beam by beam and take Strife back by force.


	10. how soon is now

_Hullo again, and insert the standard disclaimer here. Not mine, though I do so love them. And I think I should be able to claim poor Strife, since they killed him off and all.. But hey. If wishes were fishes, right? Yes, I am strange, thanks for noticing. Now on with the story. Kinda dark, and beware of bad verse. _

Safely ensconced in sleep, Strife let himself drift. Morpheus was being kind, as he had been more or less free of nightmares. Distantly, the young man found himself wondering if it was intentional kindness or if the older God was simply too busy to worry about a disgraced relative. For he surely was disgraced, wasn't he? A slave. Chattel, to be bought and sold and abused on a whim. Mentally cringing, he attempted to rouse himself from that line of thinking... some fuzzy part of his brain recognizing a voice outside of his pen.

Cupid? Cupid was here? Don't be stupid, Strife... he silently chided himself for wishful thinking. No one was coming for him- not for Olympus' trouble-maker. Giving himself back into the hands of despair, he retreated behind mental shields and waited for someone to wake his body... and when did he start thinking of himself in component parts? Maybe he was just as crazy as they had all whispered. Crazy Strife, unbalanced, unstable... waste of a perfectly useful godhood and why did Ares put up with him, anyway? He'd listened to it for decades, ignored it the best he could, gotten petty revenge here and there by stirring up what little trouble he could to irritate some of his least favorite relatives. Another mental sigh as he retreated further into himself, wondering if they hadn't been right about him all along.

Fractured, exhausted emotionally and physically, Strife disconnected himself from the cringing ruin of his body as the gate to his pen swung open once again.

Kyros regarded his most recent purchase with interest, keeping an eye on the young slave as his procurer attempted to rouse the youth. Darius knew his taste in... toys, and had sent a messenger to his camp earlier in the day. Now, as the burlier man hauled the slave upright, Kyros had to catch his breath. He was _perfect_- tall, wiry, all lean muscles and sharp angles and his skin bruised so obligingly.

"Quite a find, my old friend. He is all that you promised and more."

The slaver grinned, a flash of yellowing teeth in the dim light of the pen.

"I knew you'd like this one, my lord. Taken some of the fight out of him, but not all of it... knew you'd like to train him personally."

The youth's eyes widened comically, and Kyros felt a leap of anticipation at the sheer depth of emotion he could read in the blue orbs. Terror, panic, shame, the faint stirring of anger... had the boy always been this open, or had Darius already begun on breaking the slave? Raking an eye down the assortment of bruises, lash marks, and burns, Kyros suspected the latter. And what was this? Snaking a hand out, he caught at one of the rings pushed through sensitive, swollen flesh, and smirked as the slave moaned. Thoughtful of Darius to prepare the boy, though he would've liked to witness the piercing.

"Worth every dinar, as usual," and he dropped a jangling bag into the slaver's outstretched palm, exchanging coins for a handful of chains. He waited patiently for Darius to unfetter his property from the pen's far wall, waving him off as he moved to remove the shackles on the slave's abraded wrists.

"Leave those, for now. I'll send them back to you when I have him properly settled,"

and the boy's eyes, could they get any wider? Only one way to find out, Kyros mused, tugging the line of chains that hooked to the slave's collar. A monstrosity, that rusting iron band... he would replace it soon enough. Something finer, slender...like the cringing youth himself.

Another tug and the two departed from the stable's interior, and Kyros tightened his grasp on the lead as the boy made an immediate and predictable effort to free himself, scrabbling and hissing like an angry cat. Too perfect, indeed. Leaning forward, he curled fingers through the youth's collar, pressing against the bruised throat to impede the airway. He smiled as lips gaped, harsh rasping and gritted apologies caressing his ears.

"Too late now, pet," and he pressed harder, free hand darting to twist at those thoughtfully placed rings. Rewarded with another pained moan, Kyros watched his new toy cease struggling, watched those magnificently wide blue eyes roll up in his head. Well. Easier for the ride home, if nothing else.

"You sent _Cupid_ down there? _Cupid!"_

The temple shook, bits of marble and plaster raining down upon the assembled Gods and Goddesses. Zeus paced in agitation, up and down, up and down the length of the meeting chamber. His sandaled feet made little sound on the marble, though the rolling sound of thunder left little doubt that he was angry.

"Chill, pops. I can watch his end of things for a while, no worries. He'll be back as soon," Aphrodite wheedled, trying to slow the build of her father's wrath.

"Zeus, she's right. Cupid controlled a relatively minor godhood, all things considered. Aphrodite can maintain his duties for a short period of time and no one will be the wiser for it," agreed a surprisingly subdued Hera. After visiting the Fates days ago, she had been distant, distracted. Some thought she'd retreated to the Halls of Time to try to sort out this puzzling development with Strife... others thought it more likely she'd been tormenting some of Zeus' past indiscretions to release her frustration.

"But what if something happens to the boy? He's hardly equipped to be down there," the King of the Gods sputtered, wondering if Ares and Aphrodite had properly thought through sending their only son down to the mortal realm.

"Oh, gonna worry about flyboy but you can abandon my son without a thought? Was Strife better equipped to be stranded down there?" demanded Eris, obviously irate. She was furious Zeus would display such concern for Cupid after the way he'd denied Strife any assistance. Teeth bared, nails biting bloody half-moons into her palms, she glared daggers at her father... quite literally.

Ares rolled his eyes, vanishing the projectiles with a thought. His twin could be impetuous at times, downright insolent on occasion, but even hint at an insult towards her son... well. That was another matter, and it had always intrigued the God of War. After all, Eris displayed no outward affection for the boy... never coddled him, praised him, or really cared for him in any proper maternal sense. Most of the time she had ignored the godling, leaving Ares to keep him out of serious trouble. Her irrational tendency to lash out at the others in the Pantheon that taunted or teased the boy was nothing short of astounding.

"Zeus. Cupid will be fine. I wouldn't send him off unprepared," the God of War drawled lazily, the insult plain.

Aphrodite, who had been fussing over Eris, paused and shared an incredulous glance with her sister. Hera merely sighed, accepting a goblet from a saucer-eyed Ganymede before shooing the cupbearer along. Deimos and Phobos flinched, determining themselves superfluous to this little meeting as one and flashing out in a muted display of green and silver.

"Just _what_ are you implying, son?" Zeus demanded of his chosen heir, his voice deceptively mild.

"I would've thought my meaning was clear. I determined Cupid capable of retrieving his cousin. I gave him the necessary equipment for making his way as a mortal. I gave him the option and he took it... unlike you, father," he spat the word, eyes flashing onyx in his handsome face, "who dropped a defenseless, frightened boy in the mortal realm and left him alone, unaided and without any provisions."

A feral smile twisting her lips, Eris took a step toward her brother... only to scramble back as the Fates manifested in the middle of the little enclave. Almost as one the assembled Gods and Goddesses stepped back, eyeing the trio with no small amount of wary curiosity.

It was only Ares that voiced their shared thought with a heartfelt "Oh, Tartarus."

Maid, matron, and crone stood in a loose half-circle, wearing identical expressions of amusement. It was Clotho that stepped forward first, girlish soprano echoing oddly in the silent temple.

"The bones are cast, the players in place," she intoned before stepping back, allowing Lachesis to take up the ominous chant.

"Though opportunity's passed, time tattered to lace," murmured the matron with a sad smile.

"A second chance given to not one but two," resumed the sprightly maid, slanting a peculiar look in Aphrodite's direction.

"Conflict hiding the truth from your view," this from the crone, concluded with a cackle.

The peculiar trio clasped hands, speaking as one in an eerie monotone.

"Divided, you shall fall. The least among you may prove the salvation of all... but lose him and lose yourselves. That which is halving Olympus must become whole. Cling to your differences and all will be lost."

Concluding on that ominous note, the now silent Fates stared fixedly at the uneasy Gods and Goddesses. A tense moment passed, broken when Clotho giggled and tugged upon the hands she clasped in her own. Sharing an indulgent smile, the matron and crone edged closer to their youthful counterpart and the trio vanished without fanfare.

Zeus sank down upon a hastily conjured chair, gaze distant and guilty.

"Have I damned us all, then?"

Exchanging startled glances, the small group of Olympians drew closer to their King, each puzzling out the Fates' message in the anxious silence reigning over the temple.

"Rhyming again, Lachesis?" muttered Atropos as she snipped at a dull gray thread, head tipped just slightly to one side to hear the distant echo of a woman's scream.

"Tried but true, dear sister," shot back the matron, running calloused fingertips across a blue strand.

"Always gets their attention, and that was the point," conceded Clotho, tousled head bent over a spindle.

"Shouldn't take them too long; wasn't even a good rhyme. Not properly complicated, no riddle... no subtext," complained the crone, severing another thread- this one bright green- with a decidedly irritated snick of her scissors.

"Wasn't supposed to be difficult, Atropos," reminded the maiden in a gentle soprano, glancing up to eye the massive tapestry they had worked for so long. Threads moved in and out, seemingly of their own accord. Some joined, twining into thicker strands, others fraying here and there. No discernable pattern could be detected- it was too complex, a riot of color and intricacies only comprehensible to the mysterious trio.

"Only need them to stop squabbling long enough to _see_," Lachesis all but whispered, a fingertip tracing one thread in particular... following its winding, silvery path to an abrupt termination and then to its surprising reappearance alongside a similar strand of gold, the two oh so close to intertwining.

"Tsk, no interfering. We set the rules, and even we must follow them. Must do it themselves or not at all," Clotho chastened with a lopsided smile, watching her sister's fingertips twitch in anticipation of the twining of those two threads.

"Watch that one, lovelies. Coming too close to me again, he is... shame no one realizes how precious they hold him," clucked Atropos with a shake of grey locks.

"Give them time. They will work through our message...they must."

The Fates nodded, resuming their endless work to the accompaniment of a scissor's snicking and the rhythmic clack of a spinning wheel.


	11. too little, too late

_Back again. Not mine, and I'm the sadder for it. Excuse the delay.. Yanno. New job, some personal issues.. But I have returned to torment my favorite boys a li'l more. _

_ooooooooooooooooooooo_

Someone was crying- not openly, but quietly. Wrenching, soundless sobbing, as if the person couldn't catch a full breath. The sound hitched, and Strife abruptly realized _he_ was the one crying. Startled, he faltered into silence, gradually becoming more aware of his new situation.

He was alone and unshackled. That held some promise, at the very least. Someone had even gone so far as to clean him up- abraded wrists and ankles had been wrapped in clean strips of linen, and something oily and smelling vaguely of lavender had been slathered over his other wounds. The persistent throbbing in his head had more or less abated, though his throat felt raw and bruised.

Straightening up, he continued his cautious explorations. His new jail was cavernous, dominated by an opulent bed draped in varying shades of blue. He had been curled at the foot of the overlarge frame, resting on a thick woven rug. Standing with a pained hiss, he discovered with some shock that he was tethered to a bedpost via a thin silver chain- attached, of course, to the collar still clasped about his neck. The collar felt different, somehow... lighter, cooler against bruised flesh. Running fingers across its surface, Strife could detect engraving- but his fingertips were not so sensitive as to be able to divulge what the characters spelled. Lips twisting in a bitter smile, he noted other adornments, namely the rings still winking from the swollen discs of his nipples. Someone had also discovered the tiny holes limning his ears, and had threaded hoops of varying sizes through both lobes and cartilage. They chimed faintly when he turned his head. Of course he would still be naked, a fact that distressed him slightly. Agitated, he raked trembling hands through sable locks, noting the soft waves were clean and curling just below his heavily-pierced ears.

Testing the limits of his leash, Strife paced away from the bed toward the only other bit of furniture within his immediate reach- a low table, its highly polished surface laden with fresh fruit, a decanter of wine, and a goblet. Another twist of expressive features as he longingly eyed the provisions, and he retreated from the display. He was beginning to get a very, very bad feeling about this. Some of Ares' warlords kept slaves with them- mostly bodyguards, or to perform menial tasks, like pack animals. Some, however, kept pleasure slaves- pets, soft and young and solely existing to serve the needs of their Masters' bodies.

Swallowing a moan of denial, Strife sank back to the floor. He would not cry, not again. He could figure this out. After all, he wasn't some weak useless _thing_ to just roll over and accept this new twist- he was not a slave. He was Mischief, an extension of War and Discord. Blue eyes flashed, a storm brewing in depths bright with unshed tears. This lord didn't know who he had purchased, but Strife was surely going to show him.

Footsteps. He could hear footsteps approaching the bedchamber. It took a concerted effort not to tremble, and even more to hold tight to his blossoming anger and determination. Settling his weary body into a crouch, narrowed eyes locked on the doorway, watching it swing wide...

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Kyros lingered in the doorway to his bedchamber, eyeing his new acquisition with delight. The boy held himself like a cornered predator- muscles tense, fists clenched, eyes wary. He looked as if he might pounce at any moment. Chuckling, Kyros stalked forward to better see his prize. The slave cleaned up nicely, all sinewy alabaster set off by a scattering of bruises. The jewelry suited him as well... made him look like an exotic pet.

Catching the blue eyes that tracked his path across the room, Kyros grinned- a flash of white teeth in his tanned face.

"Tsk, pet. Didn't Darius teach you not to look superiors in the eye?"

Defiance screamed from the slave's eyes as he maintained a wary stare. Beautiful. Kyros dipped his chin in acknowledgement of the challenge, still wearing his pleasant grin. Without breaking eye contact, he moved to the table next to the bed and poured himself a goblet of wine. He lifted it to his lips, letting the rich redness lap against his tongue, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Mustn't swallow.

"Here, pet. I'll wager you're thirsty, hm? Finish my glass and we'll see about feeding you," he murmured soothingly as he held the wine forward, luring the slave from his defensive crouch. Keeping his expression neutral as the slave snatched the goblet and drank deeply, Kyros' eyes flashed in silent triumph. _All mine now, pretty one._

The youth was looking puzzled now, glazing eyes snapping an accusation at the goblet held in lax fingers.

"Wha...you..." sleepily outraged, the slave touched fingers to his numbing lips. Kyros simply chuckled, sweeping in to catch the goblet before it fell from the nerveless fingers.

"Shh, pet. Just relax... so much nicer if you relax. Listen to my voice, listen to Master," he sing-songed in a syrupy baritone, malicious laughter rumbling deep in his chest.

Replacing the goblet on the bedside table, he glanced back to his new toy. The youth was sprawled in a boneless heap, limbs twitching as he attempted to fight off the effects of the drugged wine. Kyros leaned over the slave, trailing hands along the flat planes of his abdomen to linger on narrow hips, stroking thumbs against the hollows made by the protrusion of sharp bones. The boy's eyes tracked the motion sluggishly, expressive mouth shaping a protest.

"Don't, pet. Relax and stop fighting me. I don't like to mark my slaves... I prefer to shape you this way- absolutely painless if you let it be. Don't struggle. The herbs in the wine are intended to make you...suggestible. But if you fight it, you'll make yourself sick. And a sick slave is of no use to me," Kyros hissed, digging fingers into those narrow hips as he spoke.

"Just let yourself drift, pet. That's right, let Master help you," and back to crooning now, hefting the limp body onto his bed. The youth's slight weight was negligible. Kyros was not a small man by any means- broad shouldered, barrel-chested, and long of limb. And though he was built like a brute, he rarely used his strength to coerce. He was far more patient than that. Patient and insidious, that was Kyros.

"Now, will you let Master help you?" he breathed against the hoop-laden shell of the slave's ear, hands busily stroking along the smooth, hairless planes of his chest. Fingertips trailed lower, dipping into the well of the boy's navel. _Perhaps another piercing there, _mused Kyros as the slave's breath hitched.

"Tell me, pet. Tell Master to help you, that you want to learn," he whispered, tongue setting the hoops to chiming gently.

The slave writhed, hips arching into Kyros' stroking palms, vacant eyes rolling back as whimpers sounded.

"Ye-essss," breathed the youth in a sibilant tenor, squeaking as a hand snuck lower to tease the joinder of thigh and groin.

"Yes, what? Say it, pet," admonished Kyros with a pinch of sensitized flesh.

"Y-yes, M-mastah," and the slave was crying now, tears leaking from the vacant blue eyes as the words tore from lips set in a rictus of bewildered pleasure.

"Good, pet. So good. Now listen to Master," Kyros murmured, and began his evening's work. Reshaping this one's mind would take some time, but it would be enjoyable... a treat, always, to break a spirit such as this. Laving a moist streak across the youth's collarbone, he could taste his mastery over the boy.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Strife was floating- no, drowning. Floundering in a sea of disconnected sensation, blood pounding in his ears. There was someone with fingers and an insistent voice and a touch that broke open the universe 'til everything was stars and undulating waves of pleasurepainbliss. There was no up, no down, no right or wrong- there was only _feeling_ and the drone of a voice. Bone-weary, Strife let himself sink, let some visceral part of his psyche take control and ride the overwhelming tide of sensation while words washed over him. _Respect, obey, lay yourself at my feet and be a good pet_, and then the stars exploded and darkness pulled him down.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Cupid was frustrated. Beyond frustrated, actually. Ares set him down right outside this _charming_ little slave market, but he had no idea in which direction might be. _Now, if I'm somewhere between Thebes and Delphi, and Megara is that way..._ Hades. Hollowing is cheeks and then sighing out an explosive breath (and half a curse), he spun on a booted heel and set off in the direction he thought Thebes might be.

By the Gods, he missed his wings. And why didn't he ask Ares for a map or something? Grumbling, Cupid settled into a brisk walk on the rutted path. _Well, the road is well-traveled, so it has to go somewhere big, right?_ _Hades, I'm going to end up in some backward little hole and leave Strife stranded in that miserable place._ It was then another thought occurred to the former God of Love, one that set him cursing a streak that would make Eris blush... well, maybe. What if that stranger took Strife before he could get help? He'd never find his cousin then, and _why_ hadn't he already thought of this?

Cupid fought the sudden urge to run back to the stables. No, he'd just sneak around the other way and keep an eye on things for a while, just in case... so he turned and stepped off the road just in time to miss being trampled by a horse. Scrambling, hazel eyes flashed as he drew breath to shout after the rider only to choke. On the back of the horse, slung across like so much baggage, was Strife. A naked, bruised, and unconscious Strife.

Cupid could only stare as the rider disappeared into the dust and distance. Now what? He wasn't a tracker, not by any stretch of the imagination. Rubbing the bristles of his jawline in agitation, he resumed a dogged trudge back towards Thebes- he'd just have to find Iolaus. The hunter could track Strife and his new _owner_ down.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Zeus had materialized what looked roughly like a long, rectangular conference table and accompanying chairs. Seated at the head of the table (of course), he eyed the other Olympians gathered around the table. Hera sat at his left, elegant and uncharacteristically silent, her violet eyes distant. Ares brooded on his right, fingers steepled beneath the strong line of his jaw. Next to Ares slumped Eris, dark head bowed, a raven curtain obscuring the sharply delicate angles of her features. Deimos and Phobos had long since vanished, leaving space vacant next to Eris to be occupied by a discomfited Athena, features impassive but grey eyes betraying unease. Artemis sat next to her sister, trying not to fidget, clever fingers tangled in tousled auburn locks. Apollo lounged across from his twin, a study in uninterested repose save for the faint worry lines marring his tanned brow. Next to him hunched Hephaestus, sooty hands curled around Aphrodite's slender digits, offering silent support to his wife as she leaned against his side.

They had tried to conjure Strife's image on the mirrored tabletop, but the picture failed to resolve, instead treating them to a smear of darkness shot through with jagged lines of silver and blue. Unsettled, Aphrodite turned the image to Cupid instead, and now the nine assembled Olympians watched his progress in tense silence.

Zeus finally cleared his throat, drawing attention to his end of the table.

"I trust we are all in agreement that the Fates' little show of theatrics had something to do with Strife," he began, only to have Apollo interrupt him with a snorting laugh.

"Strife, pops? Since when does that little weasel merit a prophecy?"

Eris hissed at him from the opposite side of the table, pale eyes flashing dangerously. Ares, surprisingly, placed a restraining hand on his twin's shoulder, glaring at his golden brother.

"Wake up, 'Pol, and get over yourself," interjected Aphrodite, shocking more than one member of the family with the unexpected outburst.

"Yes, Apollo. Do be silent unless you care to contribute something useful," pronounced Athena with a vaguely condescending smile. Artemis bristled, but held her tongue, kicking her twin under the table as he opened his mouth to protest. Settling into a sulky silence, the Olympians returned attention to an unamused Zeus.

"As I was saying... clearly, the Fates have something in mind for Strife. No, I do not know what," he cut of Athena's question, anticipating it from the glance she shot him.

"But you brought him back. Surely they told you something," protested Artemis at last, still not quite caught up on the situation, confusion reflected in eyes as green as new leaves.

"I...well. Yes, I brought him back, but I had no idea _this_ would happen. I just assumed they had a soft spot for the boy, felt like they'd cut him out of life too soon...wanted him to enjoy a second chance," Zeus concluded weakly, finding himself at somewhat of a loss to describe _why_ he had revived the dead godling.

Ares snorted, sitting forward to level a black stare at his father.

"They tricked you. Those meddling hags used you to set some ridiculous prophecy in motion and now we're down two Gods and who knows what's going on down there. Now revoke that idiotic rule about interfering and let me go retrieve my sons," he snarled in his rumbling baritone, and if anyone was astounded to hear the God of War claim Strife as a son, they were too smart to mention it.

Zeus was looking distinctly embarrassed now, a look Hera recognized with a roll of her eyes.

"He can't, it's not his rule. He thought he'd act like he was in control of this little scheme, but he's not. They are," she realized out loud, causing a round of disbelieving murmurs.

"You got played by the Fates? That's pretty dumb, pops," muttered Apollo, earning himself another kick from Artemis.

"Yes, well- that's not the point," blustered Zeus, "We need to determine _why_ Strife is so important and _how_ we can ensure his continued well-being."

"You mean _your_ continued well-being," spat Eris, throwing herself into the conversation with characteristic fire.

"You didn't care until the Fates went all doom and gloom, did you? And now you're all so worried 'cause you might have to rely on Strife to save your sorry asses," she continued, voice rising in volume and octave.

"Like you ever noticed him before, anyway, Eris- sent him off to Ares and didn't look back," interrupted Artemis, and Eris drew back as if she'd been slapped.

"She's right, Eris. You were hardly a model mother," agreed Athena, perhaps a touch unwisely as she was sitting right next to the Goddess of Discord.

Ares groaned, bracing for impact... an impact that never came. Eris still stood, white-faced and trembling, but looking entreaty at her own mother.

"I..I... I wasn't a bad mother! I just didn't know what to do with him! He was so complicated, this little person that wanted and needed and was always clinging and asking and just... there. I didn't know what to do," she sobbed, and Hera abruptly blinked to her daughter's side, flashing them both away from the table without a word.

Ares, looking more pensive than murderous, glared around the table.

"None of us knew what to do with him. None of us even knew him. Hades, we don't know any of the lesser Gods... not unless they work for us. Is this what it takes for us to notice? A God's death?"

Athena sighed, grey eyes dark with shame.

"He's right. We've divided ourselves up into Houses and now into lesser and greater... and look where we are."

Apollo and Artemis looked less certain, however, exchanging significant looks. Aphrodite had withdrawn, staring at her son's flickering image with pained eyes. Hephaestus sat silent as a sentry, rubbing a thumb across the back of his wife's clinging hand.

Zeus looked over his children and took a deep breath, calling Hermes with a thought. The messenger God popped in and took off again with a glowing scroll, choosing not to comment on the small assembly.

"We'll work out the Fates' meaning. I'll call a council and things will become more clear. We'll just have to hope Cupid can keep Strife safe until we can figure this out," the King of the Gods stated, frowning as his heir stood and stalked away from the table.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Cupid stared, open-mouthed, at the lone bandit facing him.

"Are you like, for real?" he muttered, incredulous and not just a little annoyed.

The bandit just sneered, menacing the former God of Love with a badly rusted knife.

"Look, dude... just move on and I'll forget you ever tried this," Cupid offered with the dwindling hope the man would just vanish and cease trying to complete a very bad day.

"Do you even know who I am? I could seriously spoil your love life, yanno," he continued when the man showed no sign of leaving him in peace. All the while he was wondering just why he had never taken his father up on any of those offers to teach him how to properly wield a weapon- any weapon. _Bet Strife knows how to use this thing, _he thought, resting fingers on the pommel of his borrowed sword.

"Need a hand, frie- oh. Cupid. Cupid?" Iolaus goggled, somewhat ruining his entrance onto the scene- an entrance that involved an abrupt drop out of the leafy canopy overhead, not to mention an acrobatic manuever that left him half-crouched in front of a relieved former godling.

"Iolaus," Cupid acknowledged with an easy smile, feeling much more confident at his presence.

The smaller man stood, brushing leaves from patched leather before plucking an errant bit of greenery from shaggy golden curls. He settled a vaguely amused look upon the confused bandit, blue eyes flickering with restrained laughter.

"Did he mention he's a God? You know, the kind that could flatten you with a thought? Or hey, can you do that fireball thing that Ares does?" bouncing in place, he aimed the last question at an openly grinning Cupid, watching the bandit beat a hasty retreat out of the corner of one eye.

"Actually, no... s'a trick that Ares teaches to his crew. I bet he'd teach me if I asked, though," Cupid murmured thoughtfully, moving to grasp the hunter's muscled forearm in greeting. The exuberant mortal just laughed, and the former God of Love found himself unreasonably glad to see him. No wonder Mom liked the guy.

"So where's your trusty sidekick?"

He asked just to see the look on the older man's face, and was rewarded with a long-suffering sigh

"Crashing through the trees right behind me, last I saw. He'll be here soon, assuming he doesn't get sidetracked," shrugged the hunter, and then his brain caught up to him... which, admittedly, took longer than completely necessary. _Sidetracked, indeed, _he thought before turning solemn eyes upon the God.

"We... me and Herc, we've been looking for Strife. We didn't mean to lose him, really. He just wandered off and I've been worried... um. He's not with you, by any chance?" concluded hopefully, and if the mortal hadn't been so obviously worried about his cousin, maybe Cupid could've been irritated with him. Maybe.

As it was, he simply drew the smaller man off to the side of the road to await Hercules' arrival, smiling mirthlessly as the hunter exclaimed over his lack of wings. _Took him long enough_.

"No, he's not with me... and we really need to talk. I need your help..."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Somewhere outside Delphi, a nameless slave slept on at the foot of his Master's bed, dreamless and lax on a blood-stained rug.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

On Olympus, Ares raged, and not even his twin would risk passing though the doors of the Temple of War. She retreated back to Hera's temple, inconsolable. The Queen of the Gods tried to comfort her daughter, feeling absurdly pleased when Aphrodite flashed in and joined in the impromptu group hug- soft and light to Eris' dagger-sharpness. _A strange family indeed,_ Hera mused.

Apollo and Artemis had retreated back to their respective temples, one glowering at bewildered Muses while the rounded up startled priestesses, demanding they join her in target practice. The twins, gold and silver, day and night, each warred with their own thoughts- wanting to consult the other but too proud to do so.

Zeus, on the other hand, sat in counsel with his brothers- Poseidon and Hades both appearing impassive and unimpressed at the summons. The conference table had been reduced to a smaller design, permitting the trio of Gods to sit in a loosely arranged circle- none greater than the other, and the fact wasn't lost on any of them.

"What have you done, Zeus? Asphodel has been in an uproar since Strife's disappearance," Hades low bass rumble sounded, dark eyes blazing in a pale face.

"Yes, brother. What has Olympus in such an uproar?" seconded Poseidon, one hand absently smoothing his beard- a nervous gesture cultivated centuries ago that he had yet to rid himself of.

"The Fates... well. They have prophesied our fall, or something very much like it," subdued murmur, Zeus' attention caught by a sudden clap of thunder. Rain? It doesn't rain on Olympus.

Startled, unnerved, the trio of Gods all glanced skyward and stared in mute amazement as the eternally blue sky darkened, roiling with clouds and the intermittent flash of lightening. Zeus quickly materialized a roof- his temple was open to the air, as was fitting for a Sky God- and buried his face in his hands.

Hades and Poseidon exchanged wary glances and as one reached to settle a hand on either of Zeus' broad shoulders.

"Perhaps you should tell us _everything_ from the beginning," suggested Hades, not unkindly... and that was almost as terrifying as the rain beginning to sheet downward in torrents outside.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

In a tavern in Delphi, Gabrielle was doing her level best not to strangle Joxer where he sat. The two were crowded into a corner of the tavern, trying to remain unobtrusive while Xena intimidated information out of someone.

"Do you think she'll be back soon? Who are we looking for, anyway? A warlord, right?"

And the questions went on, spilling eagerly from Joxer's lips. Gabrielle just sighed, eyeing the clanking mockery of a warrior with narrowed eyes.

"Joxer. Breathe," the bard counseled gently, reigning her temper in yet again. Her companion just grinned, dark eyes wide and adoring. He'd removed his so-called helmet upon sitting down, and was restlessly drumming fingers upon its surface. Ready and willing to help out his two favorite ladies, he was ignoring the taunting looks from others within the dingy little tavern. He had years of practice at that, anyway. Spotting their missing companion... or was that fearless leader?... from the corner of an eye, he turned an expectant gaze upon her.

"So, learn anything? Ready to go?"

Xena quieted the enthusiastic would-be warrior with a _look_, pale blue eyes cold as ice. Joxer quailed, but Gabrielle swept a worried look over her friend. Xena was obviously angry about something, and as irritating as Joxer was, she somehow doubted he was the current object of her ire.

"What is it, Xena?"

The dark warrior did not answer, silently motioning her two companions to follow. Once outside of the tavern, she collected Argo's reigns and quickly mounted. From her higher vantage point, she favored Gabrielle and Joxer with a dispassionate smile.

"Kyros has property outside town. We can be there in an hour," and she wheeled her mount around, setting off at a brisk pace. Confused, Gabrielle followed, leaving a gawking Joxer in her wake. It didn't take him long to follow as well, mismatched armor heralding his every footstep.

"Wait!"


End file.
